The Reality of Dreams
by Nicor Warg-Fyrweorm
Summary: PART I: Knowing is half the battle. Not knowing who or what you are doesn't really help, especially when you can't distinguishing between dream and reality. PART II: Finally awake, it's time to clear the mind of the remnants of the dream. However, one must first know what is dream and what real. PART III: Two realities, neither true or fake. No dividing line. Time is up. Choose.
1. Wake up call

Soundwave hasn't even opened his eyes, but he already knows today is not going to be a good day.

Hints of his dream whisper to him while he gets ready, but grow fainter the longer he's awake.

By the time he puts on his sunglasses, the last thing to do before going to the mess hall to get breakfast, he barely remembers anything from it.

As he walks down the almost deserted corridors of the _Nemesis_, he brushes it away, even when the sight of those well known dark walls tries to bring details back.

A dream is a dream, and that's it.

He brushes a non-existent wrinkle from the side of his uniform jacket and adjusts it despite it already being as perfect as it can be, using the familiarity of the gestures to push the growing unease away.

For once, the sight of the mess hall's doors is a welcome one.

Not that it usually isn't this early in the morning, with most people still asleep, but sometimes—

"—and _bam_! Goodbye, love!"

—sometimes there are some late night owls or early birds.

Ignoring the three men sitting on a table by the side, Soundwave makes his way to the coffee machine to get a healthy dose of deep black liquid gold to help him endure the likes of the _Nemesis_' inhabitants one more day.

"Hey, Sanders! Good morning!" Keeping a sigh inside, he grabs the mug once it's full and turns around, once more ready to ignore the three people now looking at him—

Wait, they've called him… _Sanders_?

No, that's not right, his name is… his name is John Sanders… but… why does he have the feeling it is Soundwave too?

"Sanders? You alright there?"

He snaps to attention at his name—is it?—being called, locking gazes with the dark eyes of their leader—and it's not right, they should be—

He sags dangerously on his feet as a wave of dizziness hits him, hand around the mug losing its grip—

Someone catches him before he falls, another pair of hands grabbing his free arm and helping guide him to an empty bench.

He hasn't heard it break, but the mug is in pieces on the floor under his feet and two other pairs, one clad in white boots with blue toes and the other in black with purple toes, moving along his before he feels himself being lowered to lie on his back on the bench, and then there's only the ceiling over him, and two heads and torsos.

"Carter, call a doctor. Grant, get some cool water and a cloth."

The voice is raspy and with a higher pitch hidden underneath, but the orders are strong and without room for even a second of doubt, and one of the people hovering over him goes away as the other moves, and suddenly something is lifting his feet to have them rest on a hard surface, and the remaining man turns around to look down at him.

He has dark tanned skin, dark brown hair falling to under his jaw line and dark eyes he can't say if they're brown or black, looking searchingly over his visor—_sunglasses—_with a serious professionalism and a small hint of worry.

"Sanders? You with me?" He asks, and his voice is the one that was giving orders barely a second before, but far lower and without a hint of the higher pitch, a soothing rumble instead, and he closes his eyes.

When a hand caresses his cheek as it grabs the leg of his sunglasses, he quickly grips it without a second thought.

The arm tenses at the sudden movement, but relaxes almost as quickly.

Eyes he doesn't remember opening look up once more into the tanned face showing relief and exasperation, and something clicks in his brain.

Steve Reeds, Air Commander.

"Still with us, good." The man comments softly, almost to himself, and he opens his mouth to ask what he was trying to do, to order to be let up instead of held down on the bench by the simple presence of the other male hovering worriedly over him.

But the Seeker—where did he get that word from?—tilts his head to look at something else on the room, probably one of the other two that were with him, and light falls in his eyes.

For an instant, they flash red.

And so, whatever it was that he was going to say gets lost in places unknown between his brain and his mouth, and what comes out in its place is something he hadn't ever heard before.

"Starscream…"

Reeds' head turns to him with almost a snap, looking startled, before frowning softly in confusion.

"What? No, better yet, don't say anything. Just stay still until the doctor gets here." He orders him, and another bit of information comes to mind.

Second in Command.

Seeing that he is Communications Officer and Third in Command… Well, that's an order that can't be disobeyed.

"Sir, the water." Another voice cuts in, one he's sure he's heard since he entered the mess hall, and another man enters his vision.

This one has dark brown hair to his shoulders and a stubbly beard, with brown eyes filled with clear worry, although he's not sure if it's for him.

He's wearing a purple jacket with a black shirt under it, instead of the red jacket and white shirt of the Air Commander, although both their ties are yellow.

"Is he sick? Is it _catching_?" He asks the tanned man, who rolls his eyes as he accepts the pot with the cloth over the side and, at the lack of answer, the purple-clad man steps away. "If it _is_ catching, I'm holding both of you responsible."

"Shut up, Grant. Go wait with Ted and keep onlookers away, if you're so worried." The brown-eyed man sticks out his tongue before going out of his field of vision.

Theodore 'Ted' Carter and Sky Grant, Second and Third Wings of the Air Commander.

Somehow, those names don't ring true.

A hand hovering next to his head makes him forget about names to turn his attention once more to the tanned man, who is looking down at him with an almost emotionless visage.

Almost. He can see the hint of worry deep in his dark eyes.

"I'm going to take your glasses off. You have a fever, and until the doctor can give you a once over, you'll have to make do with myself." He knows it's a warning, not an order, that if he asks not to have his glasses removed the other won't do it, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he closes his eyes and forces himself not to tense too much when he feels cool skin against his temples and the loss of the familiar weight of his sunglasses when it goes away.

A soft clicking sound after that, something cold and wet touches his forehead, and he flinches.

The thing is taken away, but the coldness of water droplets on his face lingers.

"Easy, Sanders, it's just a cloth." That soft raspy voice rumbles soothingly, and he lets out a shuddering breath when the coldness comes back full force, but doesn't try to move. "Sanders? Still with me?" He asks after some seconds of silence, where he can hear shuffling and mutterings as well as Grant's louder voice in the background, and he nods minutely. "Know what happened?"

"Get away I said, you bunch of idiots!" A louder, annoyed voice cuts, and he winces at the volume and tries to turn away, only managing to dislodge the cloth and have strong hands grab his shoulders to keep him from rolling off the bench. "Air Commander, what happened?"

"Hell if I know. He just came in, went for his coffee like always, and suddenly turned white as a ghost and dropped limply. He was lucky Grant got him before he fell on the broken mug." The tanned man answers, the higher pitch once more in his voice, and the hands on his shoulders soften their grip. "We got him lying here and called you. He's boiling up."

"I'll have to get him to Med Bay to give him a thorough examination—" A cold hand is suddenly pressed against his neck, and he squirms, but the hands on his shoulders hold him in place. "—but I can see that. Can you carry him?"

"Me? Huh, well… maybe, if I get him on my back, but—"

"That will do." The doctor cuts in, and the hands on his body vanish, leaving him feeling much too conscious about how warm he is, and how tight his clothes suddenly are. "Come on, I'll go ahead and get things ready. Don't dwindle!"

Fading steps follow those words and the mutterings on the background start anew, somehow sounding louder and more painful than before.

"Look what mess you've got me in." The Air Commander groans before the surface he's lying on moves a bit. "Carter, help me get him on my back. I swear, if my reputation suffers for this, _you_ will pay for it." The last part is added far softer, obviously to Soundwave, but he keeps his eyes closed and tries to fight off the dizziness slowly getting a hold of him.

Hands are on his shoulders and legs, and suddenly he's moving, and the world is whirling and his head is hurting—

"Easy! We don't want to get him worse." The Air Commander hisses, and there's something dangerous in his voice, so Soundwave tries to get his eyes open just a sliver to see what's going on.

Everything's blurry, but he makes out a blue-clad man with short black hair and pale brown eyes next to the red-clad one, before his head protests against the too intense light and he closes his eyes again with a soft whimper.

Oh, Primus, his whole body hurts, but his processor is just—

Primus? _Processor_?

A sharp stab at the back of his head makes him double forward, and there's a startled yelp as his face collides with slightly coarse fabric covering taut and warm muscles.

He moves a bit after the impact, better burrowing his face against a piece of much softer and warmer fabric, with wisps of something silky caressing his head, the muscles tenser now.

"Al_right_. Creepy. Hurry up, would you?"

There's laughter in the background, but he only worries about the hands guiding his arms over strong shoulders and his hands towards one another, so that he can grab his own wrist for stability as those hands get on his sides and the world moves _again_.

He moans pitifully, soft whimpers escaping his lips as the grip on his sides helps him get on a comfortable position on the taut and warm back under his front, hands under his thighs keeping him up, and he wiggles a bit closer to that wonderful warmth.

There's a soft squeak when his cheek finds warm skin and he presses against it, the hands on his sides vanishing and those under his thighs tightening their grip.

He can feel the rhythmic rush of blood through the vessels hidden under the skin against his face, and he relaxes almost without thought.

"Shit, he's hotter than I thought." The Air Commander growls softly as the world starts moving again, although in a soothing rhythmic sway this time.

Raucous laughter explodes far too close, and he presses closer against the body carrying him with a pained whimper, feeling the vibrations of the skin against his face as a low rumbling voice says something from somewhere over his head.

The laughter cuts off with a yelp.

"Thanks, Ted." The tanned man grumbles, and, slowly, Soundwave relaxes.

"No need to." A deep voice answers, soft enough not to aggravate his headache, with a hint of a not so sincere smile.

"… You won't let me live this down, will you."

Two 'no' answer the not-question, one from the deep voice and the other from one far too cheerful, but still low enough not to be painful.

"You owe me one, Sanders. Or more like one _hundred_." He grumbles, the body rumbling along the voice, and he relaxes further, although he nuzzles the skin a bit more, trying to find the pulse once more. "Would you stop that?" The Air Commander squeaks softly as the body shivers, and if he complies is because he can feel the rush of blood once more. "Seriously, if you were that sick, why did you come to the hall? Ted, Grant, go to your posts, tell Commander Storm about the situation and that I'll be by as soon as I can."

There's no audible answer, but the two sets of echoing footsteps vanish. If such a thing was possible without him falling off, he would've relaxed even further.

"I'm going to get back at you, Sanders, so don't be so—"

"Soundwave."

"What?" He nuzzles a bit closer as the swaying movement stops, his head throbbing in response. "Sanders? What did you say?"

"Name's Soundwave…" He whimpers, tensing and pressing tighter against the body, and the swaying starts again.

This time, though, it does nothing to alleviate his pain.

"Easy, man. You're going to get better."

That's the last he hears from the Air Commander before there's the whooshing of doors opening and footsteps, and too cold hands prying him away from the warm body carrying him and lying him on an even colder surface, and there are loud voices talking all around him, and lots of noise that only make him feel worse.

As he retreats deep in his own mind, he ponders over the last words he said to Reeds… And realizes that the name 'Steve Reeds' doesn't suit the man any more than 'John Sanders' does him.

There's something really wrong with the world…

Now, if only he could remember _what_…

* * *

**AN:** There will be no OCs in this story.

Now, on to other things.

Rabid plot-bunny monsters everywhere...

I could have sworn I'd encountered the worst of them... Turns out I had not.

What's worse that a rabid plot bunny-monster grabbing you for a whole weekend and not letting you sleep until the story is complete?

The answer is a _zombie_ rabid plot bunny-monster. Every time you think it's done with you, it comes back to life.

And when the result is _this_... Torture.

I've never suffered (still suffering) as much as with this. It's not finished, because every time I think I have it, the ZPBM (zombie plot bunny-monster) comes back to life and... well, lets just say, I _need_ to read things after I've finished writing, because I don't even know what I've written.

So, I decided that if I have to suffer as much for a story like this one, then it better be worth something. So, the obvious conclusion? Post it. Let people enjoy (either the story or kicking me for writing it), so that it may be worth all the ZPBM is putting me through.

I can't promise scheduled updates, because the writing process is not constant nor something that's my choice, but I'll try to steadily publish the chapters I have. I've decided on once a week, so that I may have time to polish what is getting written.

If it works, good. If it doesn't... Well, my bad.

Lets just hope I survive it.

**Update:** By the by, just realized I hadn't posted it, so here are my inspiration sources in the physical area (meaning, how I imagine the characters). Take off the spaces and brackets, and the URLs are ready to use:

\- doubleleaf . deviantart (.com)/ art / Commission-Seekers-287530695 : Characters + Uniforms. The rest of the gallery is also awesome, but it was love at first sight with this one.

\- wakachiko . tumblr (.com)/ tagged / humanformers : Uniforms, again, but these ones should be recognizable right now.


	2. Viewpoints

Steve Reeds is many things.

Air Commander, Second in Command of the _Nemesis_, best pilot _ever_, cunning, annoying, cocky… And some more things he could tell and even more _other__s_ could add.

But one thing he isn't is superstitious.

Or religious, for that matter.

He was a scientist before an Air Force pilot, and it is as much a part of him as being airborne is.

He doesn't believe in past lives.

And he doesn't believe that a fever as high as Sanders' was can make people think they're someone else, either, more so if it's a _flu_ fever.

There have been some cases and he's sure there will be more, so, despite being surprised by Sanders' idiocy in trying to keep up with his routine while sick, he's not surprised he caught it too.

He didn't think much of him being called a different name. Or codename, whatever that was. But Sanders calling _himself_ a different name, one that sounds like one of Grant's bad jokes, with the same no-nonsense tone of voice he uses to give orders?

_That_ doesn't sound plausible.

So, he's the first to be down in the Med Bay when his shift is over, and, once more, is not surprised at the stunned face of the doctor when he walks through the door as calmly as he does the bridge.

"Air Commander? Is something wrong?" The white-haired man asks gruffly, already approaching him with his signature glare.

"Not this time, Doctor." He answers, waving a hand to try and calm the man, something not that easy seeing that he feels, and probably looks, like something that's fallen from the Civilian Government Building's roof.

Sanders' absence meant taking on his post as well as his own, and he really could have done without the extra work, more so seeing he spent quite a long time in the labs the day before, cutting his sleep time in half.

The nonplussed look the older man gives him tells him he's not being believed.

"Just tired, and no, no other symptoms that would point to the flu, and yes, _I_ will come see you if I even start suspecting of having caught it. I'm here for Sanders." He answers, and the frown on the paler face grows darker.

"If it's to drop work on him—"

"Come on, Shepherd, I'm not that much of an asshole. No, I'm here to _visit_, believe it or not." He cuts, scoffing at the accusation.

Their stalemate goes on for a minute before Ryan 'The Hatchet' Shepherd backs down.

He has to fight to keep his smugness to a mere smirk, but he manages.

"Well, I guess it's alright then… If you don't mind the risk of catching the flu, too. You wouldn't happen to be looking for that, would you?"

His patience snaps and he turns on his heels with an annoyed huff, ready to walk away and come back when the Chief Medical Officer _is not there_.

"Alright! I'm going then!" He growls, walking to the door with big strides.

"Hey, wait! It's alright, I'm sorry. I just couldn't keep the joke in." The doctor stops him and, still annoyed, he glares at the man over his shoulder until his amused smile vanishes under his usual scowl. "Don't bother him. His fever was quite serious and he needs his rest." He nods, relaxing, and follows to where the Communications Officer is lying seemingly asleep on a white bed. "Ten minutes."

"And if he's still sleeping?"

"Better luck next time." He nods and sits in the chair near the bed while the doctor goes back to whatever he was doing when he came in, leaving them alone.

He frowns softly as he studies the pale and sweaty face, cheeks tinted pink with a much lower fever.

'Soundwave', he said, and 'Starscream', he called him.

What do they mean?

Why those names? Why different names to begin with?

He looks down at himself and slowly, as he lets his thoughts fly, he takes off his blue gloves, straightening them on his thighs and brushing off any wrinkles.

Sanders' flu aside, it's been a calm day, the usual bustling activity in the Military Base _Nemesis_ under the _Ark_ Protectodome, without even a whiff of the Black Beasts.

His frown softens as his eyes darken, the sight of his perfectly straightened gloves on his thighs lost to him as memories start scrolling through his mind.

No one knows how or why the Black Beasts came to their world, to their little meaningless Earth, but they did.

And they carried with them the Black Plague.

The reason why Protectodomes like the _Ark_ exist is because of that foul epidemic, turning people into masses of black goo that release fumes as black and sticky as tar, contaminating the atmosphere as a fouler and deadlier smog, taking Earth's organisms down when a significant part of their bodies gets covered by the tar-like drops that conform the misty Black Plague.

It's been centuries since those monsters came, but no one knows anything about them, only that they came and unleashed that deadly pestilence.

That's why they're called _Black_, because they're as mysterious as anything hidden in the darkness.

Humanity is alive today because of the Protectodomes standing between them and the Black Plague, but it would be a lot different if it wasn't for the Cybertronian, the Military Force's specially designed crafts.

They are manned by humans brave or stupid enough to waste years training to get into these technological marvels and be sent outside the Protectodomes to fight off the Black Beasts when they try a more direct attack to destroy their defenses.

There are far too many that get lost in their first outing.

And if you're lost out there, you are lost forever.

Dead or alive.

Steve's alive because he's one of the best pilots ever. His wingmates are because their rides are the work of the best.

Oh, Grant and Ted are good, real good, excellent in fact, but sometimes that isn't enough, and there have been too many times when they've come back just because of Grant's light-speed bursts that make it look almost like he's teleporting, or Ted's sonic booms winning him enough time to hightail it from deadly situations.

Or teamwork.

Because they are a Wing, and _everybody_ knows _his_ Wing is the_ best_.

Not even Combiners, massive Cybertronian built to be stronger, faster, _better_ than normal ones, are as good.

Not even the flying Combiner Superion.

They lost too many good men the day Superion fell.

Steve's own flying Cybertronian, known as Tetrajets, is nothing special. In fact, she's special _because_ she has nothing, seeing as every other craft has been modified in some way. Steve's not only untouched by the technicians, but old.

That's why he keeps her.

With all the new modifications needed to survive, none of the newer Tetrajets are as fast.

And none of the other pilots can steer Steve's beauty with enough skill to get the best out of her, to survive the traitorous odds and twists of fate.

Some joke that Steve Reeds doesn't pilot a Tetrajet, but has a symbiotic relationship with one.

He always scolds them, but it's mostly an act.

When he's airborne, Steve's free, one with the winds and currents and the metal all around him, to the point he can almost _feel_ the air outside the hull.

And, since fighting the Black Beasts is something they can't do visually, but through radar, lidar and scans, it's a benefit no other pilot has.

Instinct, others call it.

A blessing, his fellow pilots say.

Steve being who he is, is his wingmates' explanation.

And him… he can't really find a way to describe it, feeling like he has to agree with all of them.

No one knows anything about Black Beasts, because no one has even seen them, ever. None of their crafts has any kind of windows or panes, because they are useless in their poisoned black atmosphere.

Only screens with the radar information, and many different scans that show the Black Beasts as blobs of light with clearer spots marking weaknesses.

It would be a lot easier if those monsters weren't coated with so much Black Plague that blobs are the most their machinery can identify, but, after all, the epidemic is to them like air to humans. Or water after a shower. It doesn't hurt the Beasts, but it difficults the scans' job.

It always takes Steve to feel the Tetrajet soaring through the air to convince himself he isn't back at the simulator.

Without visual and only with the scans as guides, they need to think fast and act even faster, using calculus and strategy to navigate a world made of coordinates and data.

Another reason why the former scientist is the best, the Air Commander.

People joke that he's been at the top for so long that no one remembers who the last Air Commander was.

It's not a joke for those in the Air Force.

Steve himself doesn't know who the man, or woman, was, but he has never asked.

Every time someone mentions or makes a vague reference about the last Air Commander, all in Air Force look away.

He's begun to wonder how many do so because they don't know anything about their last superior officer, either.

But, after all, he has never asked.

Trying to get his thoughts away from the current topic, he looks up at Sanders.

The man's feverish pale blue eyes are lost somewhere on the ceiling.

Feeling as if approaching one of those damned pets that always try to bite or scratch him, Steve rises slowly, not caring that his gloves end on the ground.

Sanders doesn't react, doesn't even seem to have noticed him.

His gaze is not on the ceiling, but unfocused. Unseeing.

Unease pools at the bottom of his stomach, and starts to grow.

"Sanders?" He asks softly, a hand almost reaching for the prone man's, but stopping tremulously next to it. "It's me, Reeds. Sanders?"

Nothing.

And then, not even thinking about it, Steve decides to take a leap of faith.

"Soundwave?"

Blue eyes glinting feverishly and flecked with red lock with his, and he freezes.

Somehow, he knows whoever is on the bed is not John Sanders.

And yet, he _knows_ that this is Sanders, the real deal, the man himself.

Only, not as much the man as the _soul_.

His heart clenches so painfully that one hand shots to grab at the clothing over his chest, what would have been an agonized scream going through his lips as a soundless gasp as his knees lock in an effort not to throw him to the ground, his free hand curling on the sheets with enough strength to lose all feeling in it.

His eyes never leave Sanders'.

"Soundwave…" He whispers, and he can't hear himself speak, but the feverish gaze seems to focus even more on him. "'S me… Starscream."

The man on the bed snaps upright so quickly that the next thing he knows is that strong hands are grabbing his shoulders with enough strength to have the fingers dig in the joint and push the bones apart slowly.

The pain in his chest and the unadulterated _terror_ twisting Sanders' face keep him mute and immobile, wide startled eyes never leaving the feverish red-speckled blue of the other man.

"They're coming…" The Communications Officer whispers, the machines surrounding them starting to go crazy. "They will take us… Back to the beginning… We have to_—_"

The scream that escapes through Sanders' lips is the most agonized sound he has ever heard, and he doubts he'll hear anything like it in the rest of his lifetime.

The doctor rushes into the room as the man falls unconscious against his chest, the Air Commander quickly grabbing him before he topples off the bed, but his body betrays him by letting him know of the damaged tendons in his shoulder joints, and his legs bend under the added weight.

Fortunately, the white-haired man is there to keep Sanders from falling to the ground, even as Reeds grunts and curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso as he feels his body seize up painfully, waves of agony coming from deep within his chest—the area where his heart is supposed to be, but he doesn't feel it beating, can't feel anything but the white hot furnace growing hotter and hotter—

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the burning starts to lessen, almost as if the smelting pit that has become his chest cools with every intake of cold Med Bay air and every exhale of scorching air filling his most likely molten lungs.

By the time the doctor has Sanders back in the bed, sure he isn't about to suffer a stroke or something of the like, and turns to the Air Commander, his throat is burning as badly as if he's swallowed a gallon of distilled alcohol and his chest feels as if someone had put it against a giant Bunsen burner and switched it on.

His vision is so blurry the man in front of him is just a blob of white and pink, and it takes him far too long to realize there are tears streaming down his face.

His body is still locked down, so he doesn't—can't—make any move to wipe them off.

He could have never expected a visit to a flu-suffering Sanders would end like this.

"—eeds! _Steve_!" He jerks with a gasp as the loud shout bounces in his head, and he finally manages to free one arm enough to rub his face free of liquid, even though his shoulder protests at that. "Thank God! Are you alright? What _happened_?" Shepherd asks, leaning a bit closer so that their eyes can meet, although the Air Commander looks away to the prone form on the bed, eyes closed and breathing even, not a hint of emotion on the flushed face.

He tries to talk, but he has to turn to the side as the rash dryness of his throat forces him to cough, and he's never been in so much pain from such a simple gesture before.

When he manages to stop, every gasped intake of breath cutting through his throat, there's blood pooling in his mouth and dripping past his lips, and the doctor is freaking out next to him.

He hears him shout and curse and call someone he barely notices from the corner of his eye, because he feels as if he's burning from the inside out, but how can such a thing be real?

He's dragged to his feet and taken to an empty bed, where he's forced to sit down, even though he doesn't really go against the white-clad men of the Medical Department, it's his body that's still locked so tightly that it pains him to even make a finger twitch.

Before his mind manages to process enough for him to snap out of his shock, there's a small pinprick of a needle on his neck, and the world turns muddled and dark.

* * *

August Prime is not prone to panic, but he has to admit his old friend's helplessness and fear are starting to rub on him.

That Lester Storm, Supreme Commander of the Military Force, is especially worried about the situation doesn't help either.

"Ryan, old friend, calm down." He tells the doctor softly and, despite his age, the man gives him a 'puppy eyes attack' that would have even a baby bending to his will.

"But how can I? I still have no answers! I understand the overextended tendons, but the fever, the throat…" His voice almost cuts off before he manages to take a deep breath. "Those were _burn marks_, August. While he was in my Med Bay, with a flu patient that was _unconscious_ and without anything that could have done that kind of damage. And you want me to calm down?" He asks in almost a whimper, and the taller man doubts for a second.

"You have to, Doctor Shepherd. We need you. Even if you don't know how it happened, _yet_, you can still treat my men, can't you?" Lester cuts in, his deep voice, usually ordering people around and filled with power, now softer and more soothing somehow.

The doctor doesn't even need a second to nod.

"I can, but… but I need to know what happened, what kind of illness is this to create a cure and _eradicate_ it, instead of just treating symptoms."

"And you will, old friend. Just take some time to calm down, so that not even the tiniest detail slips past you." He comforts with a small smile and, after another deep breath, Ryan nods.

Lester lets out a tired sigh as he runs a hand through his silvery blond hair, green eyes glaring at the desk.

"You've discarded all known illnesses, then?" The Supreme Commander asks, and the doctor nods once again.

"The last tests' results got in earlier today. Nothing." And that is exactly what they'd feared when they got the emergency call from Shepherd to put the Med Bay under quarantine and the _Nemesis_ in lockdown.

This is exactly why August is sitting in his office and Lester in his, having a three-way meeting through video-conference between them and the doctor still in Med Bay.

They were startled and skeptical about the emergency request, but you don't disobey a medical order like _that_ just because you think it's weird. Later, once the Military Base had been closed off to civilians with all personnel isolated inside, the situation was explained in detail, and they realized it had been a wise choice.

There had been some episodes of flu all around the base, but none as sudden and wild as John Sanders' that morning, who went from perfectly healthy to an almost deadly fever in the time it had taken to brew a cup of black coffee.

And then, Air Commander Steve Reeds, the one who had been in contact with the Communications Officer the longest without sterilized equipment, just fell down with the same high fever plus a burned throat.

The first thing Shepherd had done after issuing the quarantine order was isolate the two men, in case it was a new virus, and get some blood and tissue samples sent to the laboratories of the _Nemesis_.

After making sure his patients were stable, he got the medical personnel outside the quarantined Med Bay to check over the rest of the Military Base's population.

They were freaked out, the Air Commander's wingmates more than the rest, but none exhibited any symptoms.

And now, a week later, no other cases have appeared, and neither has the guilty bacteria or virus or whatever had been responsible. And the two patients are healthier than ever, if bored out of their minds.

The Supreme Commander took pity on the doctor and got them back to work through the Med Bay computers.

Which was all nice and good for Sanders, but Reeds…

"I'm going to have to clear them soon, before that Air Commander of yours drives me and my staff crazy, unless I find a reason to get them to stay. And there's no standing those wingmates of his. I swear, if I hear Grant approach my Med Bay whistling that accursed tune again, I'm knocking him out until next century, I don't care what you say."

"The last two attacks haven't put them in a better mood, I guess." Lester doesn't even bother making his statement a question, and the doctor's scowl is more than enough to let him know that he's right. "Well, I'd say take some more samples for whatever you think and clear them out. You'll have clearance as the CMO to get them down to Med Bay at your call, but I _need_ them out here. Neither Carter nor Grant are half the Air Commander Reeds is, and having to juggle both my Second and Third's workloads hasn't exactly helped, mostly because they are _still_ trying to catch up and can only get so much done from the Med Bay."

"Would you rather have this spread, or Sanders falling unconscious during an attack or Reeds being outside the Protectodome if he suffers a relapse?" The doctor asks incredulously, and the Supreme Commander sighs tiredly, a scowl on his face.

"I'd rather not have them relapsing, but the possibility that something that has only happened once happens again isn't enough to keep them quarantined and the _whole base_ in lockdown. From what you've told us, it seems to have been two isolated incidents, and there doesn't seem to be any risk of this being contagious. At the very least, lift the quarantine and clear Reeds for desk duty, so I may get my officers back. Think of it as a trial period, give him one more week before clearing him for the field, and I'll keep someone with Sanders to halve his workload during this time." He says, but he's really pleading, because Lester may be Supreme Commander and August may be the _Ark_'s Civilian Government Commander, but Ryan's Chief Medical Officer, and that gives him authority over both of them if it regards medical issues.

And yet, because of that same reason, he knows how badly this situation is affecting not only the _Nemesis_, but the _Ark_ too.

Having the whole Military Base locked down for so long is starting to damage not only working relationships, but civilian morale, too, more so because no one, not even the Military, has answers as to when this nightmare is going to end.

The last two attacks, too close one after the other, haven't helped, either.

There have been far more losses too.

And Ron Fowler, Second in Command of the _Ark_'s Civilian Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers has gone to their Med Bay more than once to treat the crippling migraines than render him as good as unconscious, but with a big deal more pain, when in highly stressful long-term situations. Like the one they're in now.

And the increased periods without the man are starting to take its toll in the Enforcers and Civilian Government, too.

Ryan lets out a defeated sigh, and the other two know immediately that he yields.

"Very well, I'll order the quarantine lifted and them back to duty, but I want them coming to Med Bay for a checkup every afternoon after their shifts. If they don't comply, or if I find anything, and I mean _any_thing, I will stuff them in my ICU again. If everything's alright… well, I guess a week is as good a time as any."

"And the _Nemesis_' lockdown?" Lester asks cautiously, and the doctor grumbles softly under his breath.

"Give it two more days. If nothing's wrong, you can lift it." Both Commanders let out relieved sighs before they exchange small smiles.

The loads of work on both theirs and their subordinates' shoulders will lift visibly, and morale will increase, too, even if they have to wait two more days.

"Also, I don't think they would be stupid enough to do so, but in case they try to hide any kind of symptoms, could you keep an eye on them?" The Supreme Commander nods without need for another word, and the doctor relaxes.

Crisis averted.

* * *

**AN:** Thanks a lot to everybody that has reviewed/favorited/put on alert. Every time I see a new message about it, I can't help but smile.

More names, which means more characters! Remember, there are no OCs, which means that if someone is named, they are canon.


	3. Growing Family

Will Dylan smiles widely when the door to the meeting area cleared for civilians opens to let in a very well-known man.

When the _Nemesis_' lockdown was lifted, the first thing the scientist did was request a meeting with his long-time friend, with whom all contact had been forbidden during the week and a half the isolation of the Military personnel had gone on.

His request had been cleared barely an hour after submitting it, and he almost melted in relief.

And so, when the time came, he went to the _Nemesis_ with what those who knew him would call a skip to his step, gave his name and reason of his being there to the bored man on janitor duty, and took the pass that cleared him as a visitor with a big smile.

As all Military Bases, the _Nemesis_ has security protocols to be followed, which include visiting rights, something that makes him think of the Enforcers' brigs. Once cleared for visiting a certain individual, or individuals in special cases, the civilians are granted access to a really small part of the base, relegated to the area around the entrance.

It includes a mess hall, a recreation room and, with previous reservation, private rooms.

Will is always stunned by how many people, despite the amount of paperwork needed for clearance, are there the times he visits.

Fortunately for him, he can fill the forms almost in his sleep by now.

And seeing that the one he's visiting is a high-ranking officer, clearance is far easier to be granted. Although, as was to be expected, there are lots of times when he just spends his time sitting in the mess hall waiting for his friend, some days going so far as to have to go back home without anything more than a soldier coming by to apologize, because his friend won't be able to make it.

So, after everything that has happened this last week, it shouldn't be all that surprising that the first thing he does when the smaller man approaches with his patented cocky smirk is embrace him. Tightly.

And, not surprising either, that earns him a breathless surprised exclamation and a punch—far weaker than he knows his friend is capable of, but, well, he's his _friend—_to the arm along an order to be released.

"Yes, really long time no see. I'm fine, how are _you_?" The tanned man scoffs, brushing the wrinkles out of his red uniform jacket, and he chuckles.

"Sorry for that, but I was really worried about you. Are you _really_ alright, Steve?" He asks, because it may be the hug he's smothered him with, but his voice sounds raspier than usual.

"A bit sore right now. Wonder why." He deadpans, and Will can't help the relieved laughter.

"Glad to hear that. I've been working hard to get positive results." He joins in with the joke, sitting back down on the table he's taken as their own, with the other following suit with a snort.

"Keep working and next time you come visit you'll have to deal with the CMO. God, don't they give courses on bedside manners in the Medical Academy?" The taller man chuckles at that, happy to see his friend back to his grumbling.

If he's well enough to whine, he's fine. It's when he doesn't that it's worrying, because it means things are serious enough to _deserve_ a doctor's attention.

"If we're talking about The Hatchet, then the right question would be _when_ did they start giving those courses." Reeds lets out a bark of laughter at that, and yes, his voice is raspier, but his friend is prone to that, with his job demanding a lot of talking.

"Touché, my dear William."

"Just Will, _Steven_."

"Hey! You can't call me that, it's not in my profile!"

"Wouldn't know, never read your profile." His smile may be mischievous as they banter, but the scientist is positively happy.

Ever since Steve Reeds left the academic world to join the military, he's feared there will come a day when his visiting request will be denied because there's no one to visit anymore. So, any minute, any _second_ he can spend with his friend is one more he will treasure safely in his heart, for Steve has come to be almost like a brother during the time they've known each other.

He will always hate those first years, after the smaller man left him to join the _Nemesis_, when his decision caused them to fall out.

He will never be able to thank Percy and Jack enough for convincing him to reach out to his friend again.

Their first meetings were awkward at best, and hostile at worst, even though they never came to blows, but his fellow scientists kept pushing him to ask for a visit again and again, and, finally, he realized that not even once did Steve deny the requests.

Slowly, like two pieces of a puzzle that water had bent out of shape, they managed to smooth down their relationship and have it click back in place.

It wasn't the same, it would never be the same, more so because of Steve's high rank, but at least they had their friendship back, and they made it be more than enough.

"So, what happened? Why the lock-down?" He asks at last, when they fall into comfortable silence, and Steve grimaces.

"Spread of virulent flu. Shepherd thought it was some new virus or something, and kept the lock-down until it was proved it wasn't." He explains simply, and it's only because he's known him for as long as he has that Will knows he hasn't told all the truth.

And yet, his words ring true, which means that, judging by the topic, what he's left out is his role in the lock-down. Seeing he knows people who have been able to talk to friends and family during the last week…

"You caught it, didn't you." Not a question, and as thus, he doesn't get an answer.

The small blush on Steve's dark skin is more than enough confirmation, anyway.

"Well, I'm glad it's over and you're alright. I have so much to tell you about my latest project." The Air Commander perks up at that, as curious and knowledge-hungry as always and, once more, Will has to push down the dark anger towards whatever convinced his friend to leave his position as a scientist.

The last thing he wants is to bring up their old disagreement again.

"You can't do that!"

Despite the room being quite crowded, all procedures needed to get inside notwithstanding, it's quite easy to locate who is shouting, since they're the only ones not sitting down that aren't by the doors.

The first thing the tall man notices is that it's a quite large group, and that all of them minus one wear visitor passes.

The second, is that only two of them, the one without pass and another, are adults. The rest are teenagers, barely old enough to be recruited, apparently.

And two boys, twins, judging by their looks, are standing and leaning over the table to glare at the pass-less man, who is simply looking at them expressionlessly, the dark sunglasses he's wearing hiding his eyes.

"What the…" The Air Commander whispers in confusion, also looking at the group, before standing up.

"Steve, please, you're not on duty." He quickly whispers, grabbing his friend's arm as he tries to walk past him towards the group, still arguing but low enough that they can't discern words.

"I'm not doing this out of duty." The tanned man answers before getting his arm free with a tug and, after a second, Will stands up and follows.

"—old enough to make our own decisions!" One of the twins, the one dressed in blue, hisses, not even noticing them approaching, even if the adult with the pass quickly looks at them.

"We've even waited long enough to apply together, so that we can watch out for each other!" The red-clad twin adds, thumping a fist against the table.

And then, one of the two girls, the black-haired one sitting next to the blue-clad boy, sees them and tugs on the teenager's shirt, quickly getting his attention.

"What? Don't you agree?" He hisses, narrowing his pale eyes behind his red-tinted glasses, but the other just points at them.

Both twins look at the two men standing next to their table and scowl, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment on their faces.

"Sorry, we didn't mean to bother you." A black-haired boy tells them, giving Will a slightly fearful look, and the scientist has to fight to keep a tired sigh in.

Just because he's taller and bulkier than the average man doesn't mean he's a brute, but it seems people are too worried about appearances.

Which is why he treasures friends like Percy and Jack, but would kill for Steve, because the man met him before he knew anything about his intelligence, and didn't care.

Well, he wouldn't exactly _kill_, but the expression is fairly accurate.

It's not surprising when the pass-less man stands up when he sees who they are, but that the other adult does so too, looking at Steve with slight fear instead of Will, is something quite novel.

Looks like the cherry-blond freckled man knows who his friend is.

The biggest surprise, though, comes when the uniformed pass-less man speaks.

"Reeds." Is the simple word, and the fact that it doesn't have a title attached to it is enough to make Will's platinum blond brows climb almost to his hairline.

"Sanders." His friend answers, and that is enough answer as to the informality with which they speak to each other, because the scientist may not have recognized the other man by sight, but everybody knows the Third in Command's name.

Or surname, in this case.

More curious than finding two of the three highest ranking officers of the _Nemesis_ in the visitor area at the same time is the fact that, after their short 'greeting', if it could be called such, they stay silent, simply looking at each other.

And then, the dirty-blond TIC tilts his head towards the glass panes that are one of the walls of the room, and Steve nods.

"I'll be back in a moment." He tells Will while his fellow officer exchanges quiet words with his group, and then both of them walk away towards the glass wall.

Stunned and speechless, the scientist can't do more than watch them stand next to each other and look outside, their backs to them, at complete ease.

"Is that the Air Commander?" A voice asks softly, filled with awe, and Will looks down to see the black-haired girl and the boy who apologized to them look at the two officers with wonder, almost dreamy smiles on their faces.

"Who cares." The blue-clad twin grumbles, falling back into his chair in unison with his brother, both of them looking sullen.

"I apologize for taking your pal from you." Will's head jerks up at those words, meeting the honey-brown eyes of the other adult, who is smiling sheepishly at him while extending a hand for him to shake. "Dexter Sanders."

"Will Dylan." He answers, shaking the man's hand and sitting when he gestures for him to do so in the chair the Third in Command has vacated. "Are you family?" He asks, looking at the group of teenagers around the table.

The twins, still looking like pouting. The two black-haired ones, a boy and a girl, whispering between themselves with excited smiles. The youngest of the group, looking not even recruitment age, bouncing in his seat as he listens to the black-haired teenagers, his dark brown hair getting into his eyes with the movement but too happy to care. And the two blond ones on the other side of the cherry-blond man, again one boy and one girl, looking at him curiously.

A lot of kids…

The smaller man chuckles, amused, when he finishes looking over them.

"Yeah, all of us. I'm Johnny's little bro, and these bunch'a pests—" All the teenagers yelp indignantly, and Will winces at the sound, but the other just smiles wider. "—are our surrogate kids. Though you would think someone as serious as Mister Third in Command over there wouldn't have picked as many." He jokes, gesturing to the twins and the dark-haired teenagers, who sneer, pout and stick their tongues out at him, respectively. "Me, I have my head screwed on right, so I got those two and decided that they were enough of a handful." He adds, putting an arm around the two blonds and pulling them against him with surprised squeaks.

"More like _we_ told him he had more than enough with us and two dogs." The blonde girl comments, rolling her eyes, and the man makes an exaggerated show of being shot in the heart.

"You kill me, princess."

"You kill yourself." All teenagers answer in unison, and the man drops limply over the table, twitching.

Will breaks out laughing.

"Anyway, I'm Chelsea." The blond girl continues, letting the smallest boy poke the still twitching man. "And this is my brother Rowan." She points towards the blond boy, who gives him a polite nod, before gesturing to the group on the other side of their surrogate parent. "The little one is Ralph, but don't let his size trick you, he's recruitment age." Said boy lets out an affirmative yelp, before starting to tickle the man, who squirms away with a chocked sound. "The other girl is Lizzie, and the boy next to her is her blood-brother, Buzz. The twins are Freddy, in red, and Allan, in blue." The dark-haired teenagers wave at him with broad smiles and sparkling eyes, while the other two just grumble to themselves.

"Please, don't mind our childish siblings." The black-haired girl comments with a dismissive wave towards the twins, who glare at her from behind their red-tinted glasses. "Say, do you know the Air Commander? As in, personally?" She asks excitedly, and both her and the two dark-haired boys bounce in their seats, looking expectantly at him.

"What's it to you if he knows the stupid Air Commander?" The red-clad twin cuts in with a scoff, although sounding defeated in comparison with before.

"Yeah, it isn't like you'll see him again if John doesn't sign our recruitment forms." The other adds dejectedly, and the three black-haired teenagers look like kicked puppies at that.

"Then we should try and get as much as we can from this chance." Buzz answers softly, but his heart isn't in it.

"What in the Seven Pits of Hell…" All eyes widen and turn to the other adult, who has finally recomposed himself enough to look as if a naked lady had just waltzed in and slapped him with a week old steak.

When they follow his gaze, they see the two officers, still in front of the glass wall and with their backs to them, and the teenagers gasp in stunned surprise.

It takes Will a second, but he finally realizes Steve has put a hand on the Third in Command's shoulder.

"I guess he has a big personal space bubble?" He asks softly, watching his friend turn his head a bit to be able to look at the other as he talks, hand unmoving from its perch.

"The Air Commander should be _vaporized_ right now…" One of the twins answers, and the scientist lets out a silent whistle.

"He's good." The other adult whispers with awe as the Third in Command nods barely noticeably and Steve squeezes his shoulder before letting his hand fall to his side and turns to the view once more. "_Real_ good, the stuff that even rich guys will buy only in special occasions kind of good." Feeling as confused as he is creeped, Will turns around to stare at a gobsmacked Dexter, who is slowly sliding down his chair, seemingly unconsciously. "The kind of good that even the guys who built the Hall of Records would say is a Godsend. The kind of good that—"

"Hey Dex, man, chill, will ya?" The twins cut in unison while the two blonds shake him, and, with a startled jerk, he straightens in his chair and his gaze focuses on them again.

"Yikes." He mutters, and the delighted smile growing on his face is starting to give Will cold chills.

"Is he always like this?" He asks Rowan, who shakes his head slowly.

"Only when _really_ weird stuff goes on, or when he finds something he _really really_ likes." The boy answers, and the scientist doesn't really feel better.

"Duh, of course he's good. He's the _Air Commander_." Lizzie says dryly, crossing her arms against her chest and giving the adult a nonplussed look.

But the man ignores her, turning instead to Will with the wonder and curiosity of a toddler.

"What did he study before joining the Military? Because my data says Aeronautics and Energy Engineering as well as Biology, but I'm sure I missed something."

Silence.

And then, a chorus of 'what?!' fills the room.

"He was a scientist?!" The twins ask in unison.

"That's so _cool_!" The three dark-haired teens exclaim.

"Where did you get _that_ info?!" The two blonds plus Will add.

Dexter's grimace and the hands covering his ears tell them he hasn't really heard them.

"Alright, alright. Calm down, or we won't be able to hear ourselves speak." The taller man calls after a moment, gesturing with his hands for the youngsters to be quieter, since all eyes are on them.

Including those of the two men near the—ah, no. They're not at the glass wall anymore, but standing next to their table and looking unimpressed and amused, respectively.

"What did you tell them?" Steve asks him, the smile in his lips turning to a smirk, while the older Sanders glares—or looks, to be accurate—at his younger brother.

"My fault." Dexter answers instead, grinning sheepishly as he presses back against the chair at the intensity of the not-glare. "Perks of being Civilian Government's Communications Officer, one gets to know a _lot_."

"Family business?" The Air Commander asks the other officer, who just lets his head lower a bit before shaking it, almost in defeat. "Well, see you later. Up for some coffee, Will?" He asks after a small shrug, walking past the table and patting his shoulder in a 'we're done, let's get away' gesture.

"Reeds." The man stops at the Third in Command's emotionless call, looking over his shoulder in confusion, even as the scientist stands and takes a step back to get out of their staring contest's way. "A click, if you can." The Air Commander stiffens, eyes growing wide, before he physically shakes himself out of his surprise and turns around, nodding as he crosses his arms against his chest.

Will exchanges a confused look with Dexter, and both are forced to shrug as they don't know what has just happened.

The older Sanders turning his attention to his surrogate children is enough to distract them.

"I have one condition." The five teenagers tense, eyes widening in surprise and growing hope, as the officer stands at attention, hands crossing at his back. "If _anything_ happens or you are in need of even the most meaningless help or advice, you will come to me or Steve Reeds." All eyes turn to the Air Commander, who tilts his head up with an air of superiority but gives them a nod. "If you accept this condition, I'll sign your recruitment forms."

There's silence for a second, and then, the twins throw themselves at their surrogate father, embracing him tightly and forcing him to take a couple of steps back to keep his balance.

The three dark-haired ones are hugging in an awkward position, but their smiles are as wide as they can get, and the two blonds exchange a confused look before smiling and starting to congratulate their cousins.

Will, stunned but feeling warm inside, looks at his friend, who has a proud and satisfied smile on his face.

When their eyes meet, the tanned man winks and the scientist starts to smile in amusement.

"Atten_tion_!" He calls loudly, all business, and suddenly it isn't Steve Reeds standing there anymore, but the Second in Command of the _Nemesis_.

There's a loud scrapping and scrambling sound before silence covers the room and, wide-eyed Will turns around to see all military personnel standing straight and at attention, the rest of the visitors as stunned as the scientist, who, slowly, takes another step away from the highest ranking officer in the room.

Even the older Sanders is rigid, the perfect picture of the concept 'at attention'.

The celebrating teenagers have frozen in place, with the twins embracing each other as their surrogate father has pushed them away.

After a second of looking at the Second in Command like deers in the headlights, the man cocks an eyebrow.

As quickly as they can, the five teenagers stand up and try to mimic the rest of soldiers in the room.

Feeling self-conscious, Will grabs an empty chair and sits down, hunching a bit into himself.

"This is the _Nemesis_. This, is the _Ark_'s strongest weapon and sturdiest defense. The Protectodome is a door without lock. And us, the Military Force, are it. _We_ are the real barrier between the Devils outside and our loved ones. _We_ are the ones keeping them safe, keeping the Protectodome in place, so that they may see another day. _We_ are the ones who destroy the Black Beasts to allow our families not to survive, but to _live_! _We_ are the present, and the _future_ of the _Ark_! Of the _human race_! In _our_ hands lays the power for humanity to flourish or be extinguished! _This_ is not a responsibility! _This_ is not a load to carry! _This_ is a _choice_! And it will be _our_ choice that will darken the Protectodome, or _light the outside world_!" The whole room trembles with the roar of the soldiers in it, and Will hunches even lower, looking up at the man he calls his friend. "We have the choice of light or darkness! Of life or death! _What do we choose_?!"

"_Life_!"

"I said, _what do we choose_?!"

"_Life, Sir_!"

The room shakes with the echo of those two words and, even though there's silence, the roaring voices are still loud in his ears.

And then, the Second in Command smiles, a smile so sultry, so soft, that it's a deadly weapon all in its own.

"At ease." All standing bodies relax, and the scientist jerks at the low and raspy words, eyes widening even more when he notices just how few soldiers there are in the room despite the booming voices. "So, coffee?"

He jumps in his chair with a startled shout as the hand falls on his shoulder, and is met by the amused face of his friend, of Steve Reeds instead of the Second in Command.

"We can have some tea, if you'd prefer. I'm sure there are some calming blends in the mess hall." He comments casually as he starts to make his way out of the room.

Numbly, and feeling too self-conscious, he quickly follows, the last thing he sees before the door closes being the awed and admiring faces of the soldiers sitting back in their discarded chairs, and the adoring looks of the Sanders family, minus the Third in Command.

As they make their way down the corridor, Steve chattering about something he can't manage to pay attention to, he tries to decide if the officer's look had been grateful or smug.

He finally settles for a mix of both.

And a cup of chamomile tea.

* * *

**AN:** Updated Chapter 1 with some links to characters' looks. Here are some more (take off spaces and brackets):

\- ammotu . deviantart (.com)/ gallery / 39305188?offset=0 : Frenzy and Rumble. The rest are interesting too, but not related to the story.

**Angel Heart:** Sorry about not answering your first review, I was so happy at reading it, but the lack of link to answer threw me off. Didn't even think about replying on the last chapter... Anyway, Thanks a lot for both reviews, I love them both! In answer to the last one... I'd say you're 75% right in your guess: One character was the right one, and, despite the second having been introduced in a kind of twisted way, he has yet to appear as such. And about the rest you mentioned... well, this chapter was answer enough, I guess ;P


	4. Feel to Know

Jazz knows he's dead, that any second now he'll be crushed into a puddle of goo, or be exposed to an even worse fate in the shapeless form of the Black Plague, or maybe he'll be one of the unlucky that gets to see a Black Beast and finds out what they do with humans.

Still, there's something he has to do.

If only his communications systems were working…

Jazz curses under his breath as he tinkers with the wires on the open panel, fighting against time.

He's in the dark, both literally and figuratively, now that his Cybertronian has shut down.

The Black Beasts could be out there, just looking down at him, that same instant.

Trying to fight panic and hysteria down to concentrate on the task at hand, Jazz remembers the idiom about seeing your whole life flash before your eyes when you're about to die.

He will never see it.

Not because he won't die—he's about to become another name in the casualty list, after all—but because he doesn't remember his whole life.

His first memory is from when he was twelve years old.

There was an incredibly bad attack, so bad that the Military couldn't hold the Black Beasts off and they got to the Protectodome.

Parts of its inner structure broke or dislodged, and fell.

Some of those parts were a city block huge.

Lots was lost that day, before the remaining Military managed to drive the Black Beasts away.

Fortunately, the outer and most protective shield of the Protectodome hadn't been one of them.

The Black Plague had been kept out, and whatever dents the hull had suffered had been repaired, along the inner structure, and reinforced.

The Hall of Records, on the other hand, had been one of their main losses.

And not only for them.

The _Ark_ was the main keeper of historical records, none of the other Protectodomes had had as much information about the time the Black Beasts came and the world before them as they'd had.

And it had all been lost.

Along with civilian records.

Jazz had just walked out of one of the most damaged areas of the city, in shock and completely numb despite his broken arm and cracked skull, with only his name as previous memory.

He'd been taken to one of the hastily set up emergency Medical Areas, patched together as much as was possible, and left on one of the bunch of blankets that served as beds in a too crowded tent.

When he'd awoken three days later to the moaning and crying and shrieking, a kind enough doctor had told that to him.

And that was his first memory, of laying on a bed with his head aching almost worse than his arm, while a white-coated man explained him about how they had found him and what had happened.

His only consolation had been that his name was cool.

They'd given him the surname Smith, like a lot other family-less children too young or traumatized to remember theirs, and left him in a suddenly overpopulated orphanage.

He'd grown up alright, if he was to say so himself.

He was a good man—as in, good looking and the best at his job.

People thought he was good as in nice, too, and Jazz always smiled his dazzling smile and answered with a cocky or flirting remark.

Truth was, people thought his job as Third in Command of the Civilian Government and Head of Special Operations of the Enforcers was just taking care of organizing the monthly festival, or whatever, and help his superior officers deal with their work.

He did a lot more than that, including, but not restricted to, overseeing the safe travelings from one Protectodome to another and dealing with rumors of underground groups trying to overthrow the Civilian Government.

But those were just rumors, so nobody would think he was needed to deal with something that wasn't real.

Which just reinforced his position as The Best.

Although, sometimes being The Best was more trouble than it was worth.

And that's one of the reasons he's outside the Protectodome in a prototype stealth Cybertronian with specially designed scanners to get more information about the Black Beasts.

A prototype that has, surprise surprise, simply shut down and cut him from any kind of contact with the Military crafts dealing with the Black Beasts _and_ with the Protectodome.

He's alone and in the dark.

With a loud curse, he kicks the panel with as much strength as the weird angle he is in inside the cramped and small space of the cockpit allows him.

He rests his head in his hands while taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. If he only managed to reroute enough power to send a databurst through _any_ communications line, he could send the information he's managed to gather, but even _that_ is proving difficult.

So.

He's going to die, and it will be for nothing, because what he's managed to get about the Black Beasts will be lost with him.

And he's going to leave Fowler on his own.

His next breath is shakier at that thought, and he curls some more into himself as he remembers.

He always knew his curiosity would get him in trouble…

_"__Hey, Fowler!"_

_"__Don't call me that."_

_"__But it's your name, isn't it?"_

_"__And I'm also your superior officer."_

_"__Aw, c'mon! You're no fun."_

_"__Maybe you could learn a thing or twenty, Captain Smith."_

_"__That's not my name."_

_"__That's not what your file says."_

_"__Well, Ronald has a sense of humor!"_

_"__That's not my name."_

_"__That's not what your file says."_

And then he gave him that deadpanned glare, and greetings were over.

_"__And, talking about files…"_

_"__I thought I told you to stop snooping? What do you want blackmail information for, anyway?"_

_"__Is not about blackmail now, sir."_

Fowler shut up then, because Jazz was being proper, and that only happened when the situation was _serious_.

They were silent the rest of the walk, and once they reached Fowler's apartment, the man closed the door and activated the safety measures only a few selected people knew about.

_"__What is it?"_

_"__I was _snooping around_ the profile files of the latest Enforcer recruits when I became curious."_

_"__Never a good thing."_

_"__Got worse when I found what I was looking for. Or rather… Tell me, who was the Civilian Government Commander before Prime?"_

_"__His father, Sebastien Prime."_

_"__And the Second in Command before you?"_

_"__August Prime. He got promoted when his father went to the _Iacon_ Protectodome to take charge of it, and I got his position because I was his Third back then. What are all these questions—?"_

_"I'm getting to it. So, Prime goes away and Prime Junior takes his job. But none of them were Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers, were they? And neither were you back then. So, who was?"_

_"__It was…"_

_"__Go on, _who_ was it?"_

_"__I… I don't know. I never saw them…"_

_"__Neither did I. No one did. Sure, they could have been drowning in paperwork all day long, but know the funny thing? Whoever was Commander-in-Chief _is not on the records_."_

_"__The Hall of Records—"_

_"__Sir, with all due respect, _seriously_? The Black Day was already long past by then. Thing is, there _should_ have been records of them, even if the ones of the Commander-in-Chief before them were lost with the old Hall, but there aren't."_

_"… It gets worse, doesn't it."_

_"__You bet. Chalk the missing info about the Commander-in-Chief to a malfunction, a glitch, a power surge, _whatever_. It's not the only incongruous record."_

_"__There are more?"_

_"__I got curious after that, so I did a more in-depth search and sure, there are people upholding positions since before the Black Day, so any records of their predecessors are simply lost, but others… They're even in the Military."_

_"__What?"_

_"__The Air Commander, for example. Did you know Steve Reeds got the position the week after joining the Air Force? And there's no reason _why_. No death record, no demotion, or transfer or whatever you can cook up in that overworking brain of yours. And neither was for any of the other missing charges. In fact, according to the records, _you_ have always been Commander-in-Chief."_

_"_What_?"_

_"__And Reeds Air Commander, and Greg Allen Security Chief… I could go on, but I think you'd rather I do not."_

_"__No, I… I need some time to…"_

_"__Do you want me to get a doctor? You're not looking too peachy…"_

_"… There are some meds in the kitchen."_

_"__On it."_

It took an hour of silence and just sitting on the sofa, nursing a glass of water each, for Fowler's migraine to recede enough for him to process things.

They concluded it was some kind of sabotage, and that Jazz's unofficial mission would be to get as much information about the lack of information as he could, for them to try to get to the one messing the records.

The next day, Jazz was called to the same information gathering mission that has left him stranded outside the Protectodome with communications down.

He's beginning to suspect there is a lot more going on than someone playing with the records.

Why can't anyone remember the non-existent officers?

And… He has really had his mind flash before his eyes.

He lets out a hollow laugh at the thought, curling tighter into himself and looking up to what he knows is an open panel barely far enough for him to straighten his arms.

He could have never had that repaired without some light.

He really is going to—

His thoughts cut off with a shrill scream as a wave of energy courses through the vehicle and his body, arcing too shiny arcs of electricity running over the metal surrounding him before his sight flashes white.

A second after that, or what he thinks is a second, he finds himself huffing and as sprawled as possible on the once more functioning Cybertronian cockpit, screens flashing with messages about rebooting programs and systems.

"Not funny!" He shouts, banging a fist against a wall, and a quiet chuckle answers him, making him jump with a yelp before he realizes there's an open communications line. "Hey! Is someone out there?! Do you copy?!"

::Quit shouting, I hear you loud and clear.:: The same tired voice answers, and it is the rasp in it that helps him identify it.

"Air Commander." He sighs in relief, a big smile appearing on his face as he looks down at the screen telling him about the open line almost as if it showed the man himself.

::Head of Special Operations.:: The other man answers, and he can't help his breathless bout of laughter.

"Oh, wow! I can't believe I'm alive! Did you do that?"

::Leave the talk for later. Is everything working? Can you get back to the Protectodome on your own?::

He turns to the rest of the screens, showing only green, and his smile grows.

"Everything looks fine. Let me try to get this chunk of metal running." There's a soft chuckle from the other end, but Jazz is busy putting the panel back as it was and closing it, thanking Primus that he hasn't messed up anything important enough to leave it irreparable, and tries the engine.

It purrs as loud and ready as his high performance hover-car's, and he whoops in victory.

::Get going, then. The Black Beasts are gone, but I'll shadow you until we're back at the Protectodome. And no lazying around!:: He laughs again, already steering the prototype back to where his once again working scanners show the Protectodome to be.

"Aye, aye, Air Commander, sir! I'll have your pretty Seeker tail-fins strain to keep up with me!" He answers cheekily, too happy about his continued existence to check his tone or words when talking to such a high-standing officer of the Military.

No answer comes back for some seconds as he drives as fast as the engine allows, but there's a soft amused huff before the line tuns down to 'passive'.

Jazz is too busy grinning to notice, but his brain marks it as the Air Commander still being alive.

When the Cybertronian's automatic docking programming comes online at the proximity to the Protectodome, Jazz lets himself fall back onto his seat in peals of laughter.

He's the first person to get lost outside the Protectodome and come back.

He's practically bouncing as he waits for the cockpit to open and let him out as the docking procedure goes on, starting with the entrance to the intermediate area for decontamination to the anchorage to the docks.

When the alert about cockpit opening flashes, he barely restrains himself, watching screens and panels click back and sweep away to leave the front of the small space free for the pressurized seams to release the clamp with a hiss of air and the black metal to open outwards in three parts, the upper two up and to the sides and the lower one, with the magnetized clamps for his special boots to lock on and let him walk, downwards, the tip lying softly over the ramp that will take him to ground level.

Instead of walking down calmly and almost regally, as the last of the pilots are doing, Jazz jumps out with a loud whoop, completely clearing the Cybertronian's lowering ramp and rushing down the concrete one as he tries to keep his balance and not land on his face.

Once he gets to ground level, he manages to stop with a couple of hopping steps, hands on his thighs as he hunches down to regain his breathing before he straightens exaggeratedly, taking a really deep breath and puffing out his chest as he opens his arms as wide as they can go.

He is alive, and back in the stinky docks of the _Nemesis_ reeking of oil and the tar-like thing they use to seal the Cybertronian's hulls, and a lot of chemicals that make his nose and throat itch and his mouth dry, but he has never smelt sweeter air.

"Take that! Not even the Black Beasts and the Black Plague can deal with the Jazzmeister!" He shouts, turning to his Cyertronian and pointing at it triumphantly, like it could deliver the message to the dangers of the outer world.

He breaks down in breathless laughter after that, letting himself fall to sit cross-legged on the floor and hunching a bit forwards, his adrenaline high starting to subside.

"Are you done yet?"

The voice is dry and deadpanned and even a bit annoyed, but it sounds relieved too, and, even if it hadn't, it's the best sound of the world to him right now.

He arcs backwards, throwing his head back so that he can stare at the group of people behind him upside down, and his bright smile turns positively blinding.

"Prowler!" He squeaks, climbing to his feet and finally getting his breathing under control as his happiness tampers off a bit. "I never thought I would say this, but you're just the sight for weary optics, my mech!"

The other man stares at him with a look that screams he thinks he has finally lost it, but the usual seriousness isn't there.

Instead, a smile is on his lips, trembling as if trying not to grow larger.

Behind him, August Prime has his lower face covered with a hand while his shoulders shake with the same laughter dancing in his blue eyes, and the Supreme Commander has a dumbfounded look on his face, his lips twitching as if he can't decide whether to smile or grimace.

Ryan Shepherd lets out a bark of laughter before approaching him, and Jazz gives him a confused look, even though he can't stop smiling. The doctor makes a vague gesture at his head before stopping in front of him and reaching for a hand-held medical scanner, and he reaches up with a hand to have it hover over his head—

And finds resistance in the shape of his static-charged hair, sticking up all the way like someone shoved a giant cotton ball on his head.

Seeing that he has shoulder-length curly black hair kept in tight small braids against his skull, he must be a sight worthy of the reactions he's getting.

When he can't feel any kind of braid, only fuzzy hairs intertwining with each other and trying to get as far away from his scalp as possible, Jazz groans.

It will be a pain to straighten his extremely curly hair and braid it all once more.

But, he's alive, which means he _will_ have the chance to do so.

His smile lights his face once more, growing when the doctor pockets the scanner with a nod, giving him the all clear.

"Hey, nice look! Where did you get it?" He turns to the two approaching men, dressed in Tetrajet pilot's uniforms, one looking unimpressed and the other far too cheerful.

The first has short black hair slicked back, and is dressed in blue with his jacket's flaps, shoulders and sides white, with forearms and gloves black, as well as the back of his calves, a line from knee to ankle on the front, and the body of the shoes, along the straps holding various pockets on his chest and hips.

The other is dressed in dark purple, with the same pattern of white, plus the bags carried on his hips, and a more vibrant shade of it on his forearms and the back of his gloves, and on the patterns of his calves. His hair is dark brown and hanging to his shoulders, and there's a stubby beard all around his sharp smile.

He knows immediately that he's the one who has talked.

"Same place you guys got _those_." He answers, pointing at their waists…

Both of them look down, and groan when they realize what he's talking about.

Their uniforms are armored, meaning that their pieces-like appearance is because they are really pieces that have been attached to a base clothing uniform, buttons and straps keeping them together and in place visibly, and making knee-guards and the division between feet and calf on the boots, and forearm and upper arm, a necessity to allow unhindered movement.

Unfortunately, it also means the crotch area needs to be uncovered, something that wouldn't be a problem… if the lower layer was the same color as the upper.

As it is, the splotch of white on the otherwise colorful uniforms is entirely too visible and eye-catching, something Jazz is sure has caused many awkward situations.

"Oh, come on! Why does everybody look at this first?!" The long-haired male whines, and the other lets out a long suffering sigh as he looks at the ceiling. "It's not our fault that the base layer has to be a different color _per engineering and medical purposes_, so _why_ do we have to suffer the humiliation?!"

"Just shut up, Grant. You walked right into it and dragged me along, _as always_, so it should be me complaining." The blue-clad man grumbles, glaring at his companion.

Jazz snickers, and The Hatchet, still next to him, elbows him for it, because they are still Air Force, and there's the Supreme Commander standing right there, even if he's looking at them with a hint of annoyance and tiredness speaking of it not being the first time he's heard such complaints.

Air Force.

Mind flashing back at his rescuer, Jazz looks around at the much larger Cybertronian docked next to his tiny prototype, and the Tetrajets on the direction the two pilots have come from, looking over the uniformed men and women making their way out of the docks, trying to see if he can find the one guy who staid behind and saved his—

There's an empty docking spot between two Tetrajets.

"The Air Commander's not back yet?" He asks, and the two pilots stop their bickering and look back at him with suspicious looks.

"And how would you know Reeds is the one who's late?" The purple-clad man asks after they've taken a look at what holds his attention, the empty gorge on the ground the craft will rest in showing nothing unusual when compared to the others.

Before he can answer, the part of wall the empty docking area is resting against opens, and its Tetrajet is pushed through, loud whirring of the tracks carrying it in and the clicking of moorings snapping in place and locking it to the fuel lines and the dock sounding loud in the sudden silence.

The two pilots start to make their way to it, even though the docking process isn't finished and the cockpit, indistinguishable from the rest of the black fuselage except for the fact they know it's on the nose-cone, has yet to open.

Almost without thought, Jazz follows.

"Captain Smith?"

"That's not my name." He answers automatically, not even turning to see the group start to walk after them.

He stops next to the two pilots at the end of the ramp, earning curious looks, but he doesn't look away from the still closed cockpit, the noise of the docking procedure dying down.

"To answer your question, I knew it was him missing because he was the one to track me down and save my sorry chassis." The looks on him turn from confused and curious to startled, and he lets a lazy smirk appear on his lips as he watches the depressurizing rushes of white vapor come out of the cockpit seams before they start moving. "Fragging prototype shut down suddenly, and you'll have to ask him about the how, but there was a sudden rush of electricity and, _ta-da_, power's back." He gestures a bit to his head as if to prove that there really was a surge of energy as he explains.

The cockpit's ramp touches the concrete ground with a soft hiss as the craft's movements stop, but the shape on the seat doesn't move.

Jazz's smile vanishes as the two pilots rush to their unmoving Air Commander.

"What the…?"

The doctor's halfway up when the two men crowded inside the cockpit step back, helping the third to his feet.

The Air Commander's mainly white body, with the chest patterns red and the calves' blue, as well as the forearms and gloves, is almost limp on the shoulders of his two wingmates, head hanging limply and dark brown hair covering the upper half of his face, but his open mouth taking in deep breaths and the pale skin are visible.

Too pale, seeing how the man's usual skin color is a healthy chocolate-like tan.

Shepherd runs his scanner over him, arms around the other pilots' shoulders and hands on his hips to keep him upright, and relaxes a bit with a small sigh, gesturing for the three men—or two and a half-conscious body, by the looks of it—to follow him down to ground level.

"It's alright, he's fine." The doctor says to the group as he walks back to them, pocketing his scanner again. "It's just low blood sugar. He'll be better after eating something." He explains, and Jazz relaxes with a relieved sigh. "Damn Black Beasts don't have the decency to attack _after_ dinner, instead of _before_." He grumbles, walking to stop next to the two highest commanding officers.

"You would think if they had the decency to do that they would also have it to stop attacking completely." The blue-clad pilot answers almost nonchalantly, releasing his grip on the Air Commander when they get off the ramp and the man straightens on his own, still looking pale but not as sickly as before. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Better." He rasps in answer, his voice sounding low and tired, but at least strong enough to be heard by everybody present. "I just need some food, you heard the doctor."

"Permission to go to the kitchen and order something for you?" The purple-clad man asks with a small smile that looks slightly mischievous, earning a calculating look from his superior officer.

"I'd rather have Carter do it, instead." The pilot makes a face that looks too much like a pout not to be called so, and the blue-clad one rolls his eyes as he crosses his arms against his chest.

"And I'd rather keep an eye on you." The black-haired man answers, staring down at the other two.

"Oh, come on, guys. I'm not _that_ bad." The purple-clad argues with a scowl.

"You're worse." Is the immediate answer, spoken in unison, from the other two.

"Just, go. I'll be by after debriefing." The two pilots look at their Air Commander as if he's ordered them to let him go solo against a whole assault of Black Beasts, and the man lets out a tired and slightly annoyed huff, looking as steady on his feet as if nothing had happened when he crosses his arms against his chest and glares at them. "Civilian Third Jazz here will be my crutch if I need one, so go get some food that will stay in our stomachs. I'm sure he won't mind having something to eat either."

"Nope, not at all." He answers chirpily, because he will really appreciate some food, and helping the guy who helped him is something he'll do gladly, more so after him not using that dull surname that was forced on him.

The two uniformed men exchange a look before turning to their Air Commander and saluting.

After repeating the gesture to the Supreme Commander, they go away, and Jazz puts a hand on the pilot's shoulder to stabilize him when he staggers a bit.

"Thanks."

"I should be the one saying that." He answers with a small, real smile, and gets a half one in return.

"Nothing to be thankful for. You're the one who put up that beacon." He blinks at that, and looks in amusement at where two technicians are trying to put whatever mess he did in his Cybertronian back together.

"Huh. And here I thought I hadn't managed anything."

"Air Commander Reeds. Would you mind giving an explanation for your insubordination?" The Supreme Commander asks, standing tall and menacing with his arms crossed against his broad chest.

"I went to aid an ally as soon as I picked up his distress call, sir." He answers calmly, trying to straighten a bit more, and Jazz takes off his hand for the sake of appearances.

"And how, exactly, could you help someone whose Cybertronian had _shut down_?"

"By giving said Cybertronian a start-up charge." The Supreme Commander looks surprised for all of a second before glowering again, and Jazz takes a step back when the towering man approaches.

"You got lucky once, Reeds. Do _not_ try your luck again." He hisses, leaning down to be almost face to face with the Air Commander, who just looks up at him with unyielding eyes, standing tall and proud and without a hint of tiredness.

"I'll try not to let the situation come to that, then." Is the cocky answer, and the taller man steps away with a dark scowl.

"For your own good, see to it." The Supreme Commander growls as he walks out of the docks, Prime and the doctor following after giving the tanned man a thankful nod and smile and a warning glare, respectively.

"That went well." The Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers deadpans. Looking between the last two men nonplussed. "I would like to thank you for keeping an eye on Captain Smith, Air Commander Reeds."

"No need to. All those outside the Protectodome are under my command, my responsibility, and I like the numbers of departures to be the same of arrivals." The tanned man answers simply before starting to walk away, Jazz falling into step at one side and Fowler at the other, but he doesn't look like he's about to keel over. "Would you join us for a late dinner, Commander-in-Chief Fowler?"

"I'm afraid I have duties to return to, Air Commander. Perhaps another time." And the look he gives Jazz without them making eye-contact tells him everything.

They will keep looking into the faulty records, and the man between them could prove a valuable asset. So do _not_ piss off a possible future ally during their time together.

Jazz hums softly under his breath, a tune so old that its origins were lost with the Hall of Records, and that serves the double purpose of calming him down and letting Fowler know he's got the message—

The Air Commander freezes in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide and unseeing staring straight ahead as the two Enforcers whirl around to look at him with worry.

"Sir? Are you alright?" Jazz asks softly when his lips start forming soundless words, and it takes him a second for his training to kick in and make sense of what the other is saying.

Or what he's reciting, to be more accurate.

Lyrics.

Forgotten lyrics of his forgotten melody.

"**And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve…**" The Head of Spec Ops whispers, lips moving in unison with the other man's as he gives sound to a language he has never even know existed, to words that he shouldn't be able to understand…

And yet, he not only knows what they mean, but feels dread pooling in his chest as they slam a bit too close to home.

"**So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean.**" He startles out of his growing fear to the still unseeing Air Commander, already pale face turning even paler. "**Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…**"

"**Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between…**" Jazz continues when wide dark eyes meet his, and he starts to shake. "**Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies…**"

"**Across this new divide.**" Both finish in unison, and Jazz knows that something has changed.

Suddenly, his wild guess about something in their world being wrong stops being a suspicion and becomes a certainty.

"A klik." Reeds says loudly, and Jazz's core shudders with too many feelings as he follows the man down another corridor, Fowler on their heels, wide-eyed and speechless.

None of them makes a sound even after the door to someone's—he suspects Reeds'—quarters clicks closed behind them, the sound of a lock immediately following, for the Air Commander lifts a hand to stall any words.

Some seconds later, there's a knock on the door, and the tanned man quickly unlocks it to let, to the others' surprise, the Military Third in Command inside.

Once the door is locked again, he walks to a wall, pushes on the part next to the corner of the desk, and a barely audible sound almost immediately snuffed out is the only clue they have to the soundproof and scrambler routines being activated.

Jazz exchanges a look with Fowler at that, but none of them speak as the Air Commander sits heavily on the chair, gesturing towards the neatly made bed for the other three to take a seat.

The two Enforcers doubt for a second after Sanders sits down, but finally comply.

"What was _that_?" Fowler asks, too uncomfortable not knowing to keep silent.

"An old song, you know that. A song I've known since forever."

"But I thought you said you didn't remember the lyrics?"

"I didn't." He answers before looking up to meet the Air Commander's gaze, and he has a feeling there's something really wrong in those dark irises. "I do now."

"Do you even know what they mean?" The Commander-in-Chief asks suspiciously, as if he's trying to judge if it would be better to call a doctor.

"Remember what I told you I found?" He says as answer, as conversationally as if he was talking about how warm the weather control systems have made the day's temperature.

Fowler stiffens.

"I fear there may be more to it than just a prankster. Think, sir." He answers, and the man looks away with calculations and strategies and who knows what else already rushing through his mind. "Papers can be lost and data deleted, but how do you erase the minds of a whole Protectodome?"

"Thinking about the lack of officers before us?" The Air Commander asks seriously, leaning against the back of his chair. "Because believe me, the joke that runs around about me having held my position for so long that no one remembers the previous Air Commander is no joke."

"We checked." The Communications Officer confirms simply, and the other two can only nod.

"Any other discrepancies? This… possibility you're suggesting is…"

"Too big?" He supplies the Commander-in-Chief, who nods in acceptance of the words.

"Names and memories." The Third of the Military answers, and Fowler frowns.

"Names? As in… as in someone calling you something that isn't your name but feels…"

"Right." The man finishes with a nod, and the other Enforcer looks at Jazz with a frown.

"What?"

"When you got out of the Cybertronian… I thought it was you being adrenaline high, so I paid it no mind but… you called me 'Prowler'." He blinks in surprise at that, because he remembers calling Fowler when he realized he was there, but he doesn't remember using _that_ name…

And yet, he can _feel_ it. There's a… a _righteousness_ in that single word, far more than there is in 'Ron', 'Ronald' or even 'Fowler'.

"And it rang true." Reeds comments, eyes locking with his superior officer's, but, to their surprise, the Commander-in-Chief shakes his head.

"It didn't. It felt… annoying. And yet, it was familiar. More like…" He gestures with a hand, as if trying to catch his next words, and Jazz smiles widely as it dawns him.

"Like a nickname? Like me calling you Ronald?" He receives a glare for that before the man's green eyes widen.

"Actually, yes. It did."

"We've been through that too." The Air Commander says when they fall silent, straightening in his chair. "Mind a little experiment? See if you recognize our other names?" The Enforcers look at each other before turning to him with a nod. "Starscream and Soundwave."

Jazz's heart does a funny stuttering thing that is absolutely _not_ funny at that.

And then, he knows.

"Starscream." He repeats, and he finds himself slowly turning to see Sanders—no, not 'Sanders'. "Soundwave."

The Communications Officer nods.

"And yet, 'Jazz' sounds right." Reeds—or Starscream, what is he supposed to call him?—wonders aloud, once more regaining their attention, and he knows it's an opening for an explanation.

"The Black Day. I was a survivor. I don't remember anything of it, or of before, but the medic said that I'd told them my name was Jazz, even though I don't remember doing that… Do you think…?" He asks softly, his chest constricting with something too complex to describe.

"Perhaps it jarred something loose." The Air Commander agrees with a nod, eyes reflecting the light as he tilts his head in a way that makes them seem red. "You keep using expressions and words others don't."

"Wha—?"

"I'll have your pretty Seeker tail-fins strain to keep up with me." The tanned man quotes, and he sees nothing wrong with that sentence except…

What's a Seeker?

"Soundwave did the same." The Military Second in Command adds simply, the name rolling easily off his tongue, and, for an instant, the world feels right.

"The Jazzmeister." Fowler cuts in, looking at the floor without seeing it. "Optics. _Mech_." He adds before letting his head fall into his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "Frag it, this situation, all this is so… so… unbelievable… Nuts and bolts, this makes no sense!"

And he freezes.

They all freeze.

Because it makes no sense, yet they all have understood what Fowler meant with that seemingly meaningless expression.

"I… we… who else…?" The Commander-in-Chief whispers, looking up at them with fearful eyes and, for a second, the light makes them shine blue.

"No idea. We've kept it between us, just in case…" Reeds doesn't need to finish that sentence, because that's exactly what all the others are thinking.

Nuts and bolts, indeed.

"And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve." Jazz whispers, looking down at his trembling hands. "So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean. Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…" His voice cracks as his trembling grows harsher, and he huddles into himself.

"Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between." Starscream's voice continues, soft and raspy and sounding far more ominous than it should. "Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies… across this new divide."

* * *

**UPDATE:** Changed some of the way things are written, meaning things go like this:

"Normal speech"

_"Memories"_

"**Other language**"

::Comm lines::

I'll be going over the next chapters to update them with this new pattern, so expect to find things like these from now on.

Also tweaked a bit the scene of the corridor to try to clear it up some more.

Now, back to the original author note.

* * *

**AN:** Couldn't help the song, it just... wrote itself... and it's _so fitting_...

More characters, including one that had been kind of introduced before, so that means the game of 'Who is Who' keeps going. If you want to know who is who, just say so and I'll PM you with the answer or a full list, even. I just don't want to spoil the fic, so it's NOT going to be on an AN. That doesn't mean I'll be annoyed if you ask for it, or for confirmation to your guesses, so don't worry about asking.

Updated first and third chapter so that the links actually show up.

Last bunch of characters:

\- ammotu . deviantart (.com) / gallery / 39305188?offset=0 : Jazz. I know I said the rest weren't related to the story, but it felt like spoiling the fic otherwise...

\- beriuos . deviantart (.com) / art / MNC-HumanizedSeeker-277599565 : Flight uniforms, but, story aside, I _love_ this one.

**Angel Heart:** Thanks for the review! I hope this new chapter has cleared some more things. And I'm _so glad_ you liked the speech, I thought it a bit OOC for the character, but then I remembered who it was and... kind of ended up laughing, but couldn't just undo it, so... Thanks once more, and I hope to hear from you again!


	5. Darker than Black

The room is dark despite the light streaming in through the window.

_"__I can't see anything!"_

_"__Neither of us can see anything."_

He's siting on the bed, head resting on his crossed hands, as if praying.

_"__Do your scans pick anything?"_

_"__What do you think?"_

He's not.

_"__That we're down the deep end here."_

_"__Won't you mute it?"_

He has never believed in Gods.

_"__Will it make it any lighter?"_

_"__Primus, give me strength…"_

And yet…

_"_… _I'm dreaming, right?"_

_"__Get ready."_

"Please… let it be a dream…"

_"__Look out!"_

_"__In there!"_

Deep in his chest, deeper than his beating heart, he knows it isn't.

_"__Are you alright?!"_

_"__I will try to hold them off."_

His breathing hitches and he hunches a bit more into himself, body starting to shake.

_"__But—!"_

_"__Run!"_

He forces a sob down his throat, hands wrapping around his shoulders as he curls even tighter.

_"__I can't leave you!"_

_"__You have to. They _need_ you."_

He stumbles out of the bed, ripping the sheets when they tangle with his legs.

_"__Come back."_

_"_… _I'm sorry…"_

He rushes into the bathroom and meets his reflection.

_"_… _I need to save you…"_

The man looking back is not him.

_"__I'm here!"_

He's someone with a name that's not his.

_"__Do you want a piece of me?"_

Someone that's not real.

_"__Come and get me!"_

He slams his fist into the mirror with a loud roar.

_"__Keep going…"_

Blood droplets and glass shards rain down, and something in his chest freezes.

_"__Leave me…"_

He feels numb.

_"_… _alone."_

His feet step back and his uninjured hand reaches for the first aid kit in the cupboard.

_"__It will be hard…"_

The shards are taken out before he goes to the kitchen to wash the blood off.

_"__We won't be there…"_

He bandages his hand, simply staring to see if there's red tainting the white.

_"__I won't be there…"_

White.

_"__Just you…"_

With a splash of red.

_"_… _in the wreckage."_

The door to the bathroom closes with a loud slam, hiding blood on white tiles.

_"__You're going to need me…"_

One look at his hover-car is all it takes for him to start walking.

_"__But I'm losing myself…"_

People walk by, children laugh, a man speaks through his phone, a woman coos at a crying baby.

_"__You're going to lose me…"_

Blobs of color rush by, someone shouts loudly, shop signs flash brightly.

_"__I can't escape…"_

Just shadows and white noise.

_"__I left you…"_

The automatic doors of Enforcers Headquarters open, and the cool air of the hall numbs his skin.

_"__You were the only one I had…"_

People salute him or ask questions, and he nods and answers without knowing what he's saying.

_"__The only friend I had…"_

His mouth opens and sounds come out.

_"__You are the only one left…"_

He doesn't recognize their faces.

_"__Promise you will forget me…"_

One more pair of eyes, another mouth curling into a smile, strands of hair swaying with nods.

_"__I don't want to hurt you…"_

The elevator doors open, and he sees desks.

_"__When I've forgotten you…"_

People looking over papers, scrolling down screens, sipping from Styrofoam cups.

_"__Please, don't cry…"_

Jazz.

_"__Everything will be alright."_

A coffee mug in one hand, leaning against a desk as he talks with the one sitting on the chair.

_"__There's still hope."_

His hair in his braided style, his smile so warm not even the cold air of the building can get to it.

_"__No matter how long it takes…"_

Black jeans, white shirt with black sleeves and a blue and red stripe with a four over his heart.

_"__You will always be there…"_

He moves away from the desk, waving back at whoever he leaves behind, and steps closer to him.

_"__I will always trust you."_

He looks at him, and his eyes are blue.

_"__I can feel myself slipping away."_

"Hey, Boss. Welcome back."

_"__I wanted you to be safe."_

The mug crashes loudly.

_"__I had to leave you."_

The body in his arms is warm, melting the numbness from his skin.

_"__Forgive me…"_

His throat aches, and he lets out the sob he's been trying to keep down since before he woke up.

_"__Forget me…"_

Strong arms encircle his back and warm hands lay on his shoulder-blades.

_"__I won't be there to protect you…"_

His tears burn warm trails down his cheeks, wetting the cloth his face is pressed against.

_"__I failed you…"_

The sound of the beating heart is loud in the ear he has pressed against a taut neck.

_"__My friend…"_

"Prowler…?"

_"__I wish I could hear that stupid song…"_

His knees wobble and they're suddenly on the floor.

_"__The one you're always humming…"_

The grip around his torso tightens, drawing him closer, and he takes in a shaky breath.

_"__I guess I'll have to be the one singing this time."_

"I remembered black skies… The lightning all around me…"

_"__I wish there had been light…"_

"I remembered each flash… As time began to blur…"

_"__I wish I could have seen you one last time…"_

"Like a startling sign… That fate had finally found me… And your voice—"

_"__I wish I could hear your voice…"_

"Your voice is all I heard…" A whisper in his ear when he falters. "That I get what I deserve…"

_"__I don't deserve it."_

"I'm sorry…"

_"_… _I'm sorry Jazz."_

"I'm sorry I left you…"

_"__I hope you make it."_

"It's alright, Prowl. You came back."

_"__Because I won't."_

The crack in his chest finally breaks, and he's sobbing out loud, unable to even form words.

_"_… _I let you down."_

Because it's wrong.

_"__I hope we don't meet again…"_

Jazz's wrong.

_"__Because I won't be coming back this time."_

Nothing will be right ever again.

* * *

When August Prime enters the Enforcers Headquarters, he has to fight to keep from faltering in his step.

There's something dark in the air.

The woman at the information post rushes to meet him, and he can't help but tense.

"Commander Prime, we thought you wouldn't be here until…" Her voice wavers at his slightly confused look. "Would you… mind coming back later?"

For a couple of seconds he can't do nothing but stare.

"Excuse me?" He asks at last, and the woman tries not to fidget too obviously.

"Would you mind coming back when you were scheduled to?"

"Is the Commander-in-Chief in a meeting?"

"No, Sir."

"Then I don't see why I need to wait."

The woman falters, and his eyes widen in realization.

It must have been a real bad migraine if his people are trying to keep the Civilian Government Commander away.

Smiling softly, he nods at the woman, who still looks like she's trying to find her words.

"Don't worry, I'm here as a friend."

And that, apparently, is all she needs, because she lets out a relieved sigh and steps away.

Surprised, although not so much, he steps into the elevator.

He'll keep an eye on Fowler until their scheduled meeting is bound to happen. And if the man's not better by then, he'll adjourn it, and maybe take him home.

The floor he gets down on is even worse than the hall.

There's people working, but they're so silent that one would have to strain their ears to hear them.

There's a 'wet floor' sign in the middle of the corridor, some steps away from the elevator.

Mindful of it, August steps around, and quickly looks at the Enforcers.

All eyes are on him.

He's starting to become really unnerved…

Silently, one of the younger ones stands and approaches him, looking over his shoulder at the curtained office at the other end of the room.

Drew Philips.

A real chatty boy, from Fowler's tales, and one the Enforcer is slowly warming up to.

Now, though, the man is completely silent.

"Commander Prime." He whispers respectfully, giving the patch of wet floor a too wide berth. "We weren't expecting you so soon. Not that _we_ were expecting you but…" And just when it seems his well-known chattiness will make an appearance, a quick look at the bright yellow sign is all it takes to silence him.

"I'm not here out of duty, but as a friend."

Something cold crawls up his back when he sees the surprised yet extremely relieved look on the young man's face.

"Oh, God. Thank you." He whispers, and eagerly gestures for him to go to the office.

He's beginning to think it's a bad idea.

Conscious of his phone and Ryan's number on speed dial, he stops in front of the door and knocks softly.

There are far too many eyes on his back.

The door opens a sliver, and Jazz looks up at him from inside the bright room.

To put it mildly, he's stunned.

If this was a migraine, the lights would be out. And Fowler would be alone, for he hates appearing weak, more so in front of his men.

The door opens wider after Jazz takes a look over his shoulder, letting him in, and he has his phone out when it closes at his back.

The Commander-in-Chief is hunched over his desk, head in his hands and back arcing in long, deep breaths.

"You're early." He almost jumps at the man's voice, and really does so when a hand's suddenly against his arm.

"Take a seat, Commander." Jazz invites with a slightly amused small smile, taking his hand off his arm and gesturing towards the chairs in front of the desk.

"Are you alright?" He asks his Second after giving the Third in Command a grateful nod, taking one of the two chairs for himself.

"I've been better."

"Doesn't the light bother you?" He asks softly, and the man in front of him tenses sharply, head lifting enough to give him a one-eyed glare through his auburn locks.

"_Never_." He hisses, and Prime raises his hands in the universal 'I'm unarmed' gesture, feeling it's the right thing to do.

"Sorry. I thought it was a migraine."

The visible eye vanishes as the head bows again, and there are tremors running down his arms and back.

"I wish."

Jazz steps around the desk and puts a hand on Fowler's shoulder. After a second, the shaking subsides and the man relaxes with a couple of deep breaths.

"What was this that you wanted to discuss?"

"Are you sure you're fine? We can talk about this later—"

"The only reason I'm here instead of back at my apartment is because you requested this meeting. _Talk_."

Knowing better than to argue with a cranky Commander-in-Chief, more so one that snaps at _him_, August straightens in his chair and prepares for the explosion.

Jazz looks at him with narrowed eyes, hand still on Fowler's shoulder, as if knowing he's going to say something they will all regret.

It can't be avoided, though, and sometimes, the blow is better delivered in one quick punch than slow prickling.

"I got a call from Supreme Commander Storm yesterday afternoon, about Jazz's information gathering." Both men tense, and, somehow the room is suddenly colder and he has to fight against a shiver. "The power surge used to jump-start the Cybertronian erased all the data recorded, and they want him to go out again."

Silence.

Jazz's hand tightens its grip around Fowler's shoulder, and the man starts to shake again, his deep breaths longer and slightly tremulous.

"No." He growls at last, and August's not surprised.

"That's what I told Storm. He explained that they aren't asking for another immediate outing, but for Jazz's participation once the stealth Cybertronian has been thoroughly tested and fool-proofed."

"No." And he's surprised then, because it is a sound proposal, but the Commander-in-Chief's tone hasn't changed.

"Fowler, I understand one of your men suffered a close call, but—"

"I've said _no_!" He shouts, straightening suddenly and slamming a fist against his desk with enough strength to make a neat pile of reports and the paperweight on them fall from the table.

His Second's murderous expression turns him to stone.

"Not now, not in a month, not in a _million vorn_!" He screams, and Jazz's hand is the only thing keeping him in his seat. "So go tell that Pit-spawn of Storm that he can go out there _himself_ if he wants a picture of those Black Beasts so badly!"

"Boss, easy. I think you've made your point." His Third interjects calmly, squeezing his superior's shoulder almost reassuringly when the man seems about to continue glaring a hole through the Civilian Commander while shouting his heart out.

"I've fragging better have, or it won't be the Black Beasts they have to worry about anymore." The Commander-in-Chief growls darkly, though much lower than before, and August risks letting out a shaky breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"I'll… talk with Lester." He whispers, swallowing the lump in his throat, never lowering his hands from where they are hovering shakily in front of his chest.

_I'm unarmed_, they seem to say, _and you've got me completely terrified. Please, don't kill me._

August prays to whoever wants to listen for the message to be received.

Miraculously, it seems to be, because Fowler leans back against his chair and relaxes enough that the Civilian Commander can be sure he won't be trying to rip out his throat.

Not at the moment, at least.

"You'd better." He hisses, sounding calmer yet as menacing as before, and he can only nod again.

"Will you go home now? Take things easier for today?" He asks after some seconds, finally lowering his hands, when he notices how puffy and reddened his eyes are, almost bloodshot, and the bandaged hand with red spots staining the pristine white fabric.

It almost looks like he's been crying.

The image of the warning sign outside the doors of the elevator flashes by, but he quickly disregards it.

That simply can't be.

'Crying a river' is an exaggeration, after all.

"If you have nothing else to tell me about, then yes." The Commander-in-Chief grumbles, looking as if he wants nothing else than to not go back to his apartment, yet aching to get away from Headquarters.

"Do I need to call Ryan?"

"Who you need to call is Storm." His Second hisses, and he nods quickly, hands shooting up again without a thought.

"I'll… be going then…" He answers, slowly standing up and walking backwards to the door, both Fowler and Jazz's narrowed eyes following him.

Funny, he'd always thought his Second's eyes were green. Why do they look blue now?

Only when the door to the office clicks closed does he let out a shaky sigh, feeling all the eyes of the rest of Enforcers in the room on his back, but far too worried by those two pairs that he can still feel on him despite the door being between them.

Not wasting another second, he turns on his heel and calmly walks away.

If he hurries a bit more than is polite… well, he's a busy man.

The first thing he does when he's back in his hover-car, though, is call Ryan Shepherd, instead of Lester Storm.

He needs someone to talk to, and the grumpy doctor is the mech for the job.

He's glad he hasn't even started the engine as the thought crosses his mind.

Mech.

Such a strange word…

What does it mean?

And why does it sound so… fitting?

Disregarding it as a consequence of his still too high-strung nerves, he clicks the speed dial and turns on the engine, deciding a calming cup of tea with his old friend at the _Nemesis_ will be the best way to kill two birds with a stone.

"_What is it?_"

August has to smile despite himself as the voice of the doctor echoes grumpily in his car.

"Do you have some time for a cup of tea?"

"_What happened?_" The grumpiness has vanished, replaced by concern, and August blinks before he realizes his voice is shaky.

"Long story short, there was a proposal that wasn't liked. At all."

"_How soon can you be here?_"

"Fifteen minutes, if traffic's bad."

"_I'm on duty, but I'll get you cleared. Someone will accompany you when you get here._"

"Thank you, old friend." He answers gratefully, his voice shaking again but for a completely different reason.

"_Don't thank me yet._" The doctor grumbles, but doesn't cut the call, so they make small talk during the ten minutes it takes the Civilian Commander to arrive to the _Nemesis_.

As told, there's a soldier already there waiting for him, who tells him he'll take him to the Med Bay.

August nods thankfully, almost completely calmed and perfectly in control once more, and follows.

They're halfway there when alarms start blaring, loud horns and blinking red lights filling the base.

"What's going on?" He asks loudly, hunching a bit and fighting the urge to cover his ears.

The soldier, while tense, is not surprised.

"Black Beast proximity alert, Sir! I'll have to ask you to—!"

"No time for that!" A familiar voice shouts, and August turns around to see both Ryan and Lester approach. "To your post, soldier!" The man obeys almost immediately, barely taking the time to salute his superior officers before running away. "Ever seen a battle from the bridge?"

The Civilian Commander's eyes widen as he's guided to the center of operations of the _Nemesis_.

It's a crazy sight, people rushing all over the place, orders and reports being shouted to the point they're hard to understand, screens flashing with maps and scans and too quickly scrolling text.

"Atten_tion_!"

And it all calms down and becomes a perfectly oiled machine with that simple word from the Supreme Commander, the noise lowering to a constant murmur as headphones are placed over heads and the Communications Officer lets his hands dance on the controls.

A second later, the main screen becomes completely green, a large paler line on the bottom of it with data bubbles coming from it signaling the Protectodome's location.

Four red dots appear on the upper side, slowly approaching.

"Situation." The Military Commander orders, and a voice answers from between the many soldiers on the level below, each manning their station.

"Four Ground-based Black Beasts, two Point Heavy, one Light Static and one Runner, Sir."

"What does that mean?" He asks Ryan in a whisper as coordinates and other data start being shouted aloud.

"Two heavily armored and armed Black Beasts, one sniper, or something of the like, and one quick as a lizard underfoot. All of them ground units, if they can be called so." The doctor answers, not looking away from the slowly approaching dots, stopping here and there and moving in an almost erratic pattern.

"There are air units?" He asks in surprise, and the older man nods with a grimace.

"Few, and only appear from time to time, but they're there. Lucky for us, they're not here today."

Pale blue lights emerge from the line that represents the Protectodome, and August doesn't need to ask to know they're the Cybertronian.

Or, judging by their speed, the Tetrajets.

The three blue dots slide gracefully across the screen, in an almost perfect straight line before they move apart almost on top of the red dots.

They start circling them as four more blue dots, slower and moving in a more sinuous pattern, appear outside the Protectodome.

Data bubbles pop up next to them, a small blueprint of the Cybertronian or Tetrajet with a picture of the pilot next to it.

He recognizes the Air Commander and his wingmates immediately as the members of Air Force.

One of the red dots starts moving back the way it had come, while another starts moving faster in what looks like a dance with the Third Wing's own.

::Got one of the fuckers running already!:: The chirpy voice of Sky Grant bursts through the room, and August barely keeps himself from jumping.

::Don't get too comfortable, there are still three more left.:: The calm Theodore Carter answers, his own dot circling one mostly immobile. ::Damn it all, these things are really reinforced this time.::

::Commander Storm, this is Air Commander Reeds. Do you copy?::

"Loud and clear." Lester answers into the microphone attached to his one-eared headphones, and the Civilian Commander has to blink, for he has not seen the man put them on.

::What's the situation? Are there more of the Black Beasts around?::

"Not that our scanners can pick up, Air Commander."

::… I don't like it. They're too far from the Protectodome. They've moved slow enough to get us to intercept on the edge of the furthest scans, but fast enough to get us moving quickly. Sir, I—::

"Incoming! Four more!" Sanders shouts, cutting through Reeds' worried words as four more red dots appear in the screen, these ones moving as fast as their Tetrajets. "Aerial!"

Three voices curse at once as the dances of the blue dots around the first red ones break with the appearance of the other four.

::Fall back! We need to put enough distance for the scans to be useful!:: The Air Commander shouts, and the three blue dots twirl and circle some more before starting back towards the Protectodome, meeting the rest of blue dots halfway.

"Reeds, now! Ground Support on site!" Lester shouts, hands clasped tightly around the railway as his eyes never leave the screen, tension visible on every inch of his body.

::One eighty! Target Aerial!:: The Air Commander orders, the affirmatives of his wingmates quickly following as the three dots separate once more, rounding to intercept the other flying four, far closer to them than the four on ground, and the dance starts again.

One of the blue ground dots blinks out.

Two flying red ones follow.

One of the ground red ones starts to go away, and another soon follows.

The two remaining flying red ones turn around, flying over the retreating two, while the last of the red blinks out of existence.

::That's it! Run away!:: The Third Wing shouts happily, his whoop echoing in the room as the blue ground dots start to return to the Protectodome with the three airborne ones sweeping the area of the battle.

::This is not right…:: The Air Commander's voice cuts through the happy shouting, and silence falls. ::This is not right, they're running away too soon.::

::Come on, Reeds! They're weaker than before, or we're even better than we though. We should be celebrating!:: Grant's happy voice answers quickly.

::No, we shouldn't. Fall back!:: He shouts, and August winces at the shrillness in his words.

The three flying blue dots break their flight pattern to regroup, and suddenly, the two flying red dots turn around and dart towards them far quicker than they'd moved before, a third appearing suddenly from the top of the screen and quickly catching up with its companions.

"Incoming!" Sanders and Storm shout in unison, and the blue dots quickly break apart as the other three rush between them.

Fear freezes the Civilian Commander, but the ground blue dots had stopped in a line between the aerial ones and the Protectodome, and the red fliers quickly turn around as they get too close.

::They're going back to you, Air Commander!:: One of the ground units shouts, and August can't keep his dread-filled gasp in.

The ground-based red dots have also turned around, moving quickly, and the three blue fliers are trapped between them.

"Reeds get out of there _now_!" Lester shouts, fists white and eyes wide with horror.

::Damn it all, where did they come from?!:: Grant shouts, voice tinted with worry and fear, as his dot starts a mad dance around one of the flying ones chasing after him. ::Get it off!::

::One eighty, Grant!:: Carter's voice shouts, his own dot seemingly chasing the red after his wingmate despite having another red flier after him.

The Third Wing seems to stay in place for a second, his red hunter going through his dot, before rushing towards the incoming blue one.

For less than a second, the two blue dots become one, before they shoot apart and the two red ones collide and disappear.

::Yeah! Better luck next time, motherf—::

::Fuck!:: August's attention snaps to the Second Wing, and his stomach drops.

While Grant has evaded towards the Protectodome, his wingmate has gone the opposite direction—right into the lines of the red ground units.

::Mayday! Mayday!:: The fear in the usually calm man's voice is enough to get the Civilian Commander shaking as he watches his dot shake and seemingly bounce in place between the two red ground ones.

::To space!:: The Air Commander shouts, and August finally locks onto his own dot, quickly moving towards his trapped wingmate with the last two red flying ones on his tail.

Carter's dot starts shaking on its spot, and, a second later, the Second's goes through it and over one of the red ones.

The two on his tail collide with those on the ground, two vanishing immediately while the others bounce before finally blinking out.

::Now _that_ is flying and not what those two—::

"Fall back!" Sanders shouts, but it's too late.

Three more red dots appear on the upper side of the screen, moving fast, and the one at the front merges with the blue one for an instant before they go separate ways.

The blueprint of the Tetrajet attached to the dot starts flashing red… over the nosecone.

The cockpit.

"Reeds!" Storm shouts, watching the blue dot move in a shuddering line, the three red ones on his tail like scavengers waiting for an injured animal to die.

August stops breathing.

::Get away from my Trine Leader!:: Carter _roars_ through the sound system, his own blue dot going through the red ones, who quickly scatter, although one blinks out.

::I've got him!:: Grant shouts as the Second Wing's dot starts persecuting one of the red while the Third's shadows the Air Commander's, whose flight seems to have stabilized. ::He's flying slower but better, but I can't hail him. Comm must be down.::

::Just get him out, I have this fuckers.:: Carter roars as the red dot he's trailing blinks out, the other two blue slowly moving away while the ground based ones, with three more blue ones joining them, arrange themselves on a line in the middle of the screen. ::One more to go and—::

Carter's dot blinks out.

The Civilian Commander's horrified shout is swallowed by Storm's roar.

The flying red dot finishes the arc it had been in to try to avoid the one shadowing it and flies off the screen.

Silence falls on the bridge.

::Sir? Supreme Commander Storm? What has happened to Carter? I can't hail him!:: Lester takes in deep breaths, wide eyes still locked on the screen, where only blue dots remain, the two fliers almost by the Protectodome. ::Sir?!::

"Carter has… fallen."

::No… No, it can't be, there was only one of those monsters left, and it was fleeing! It can't be!::

"Get back to the _Nemesis_. All Ground Units, return to the _Nemesis_ in ten if there's no change." A chorus of 'yes sir' answers, but no further word is heard from Grant as his and the Air Commander's dots disappear in the green line that is the _Ark_. "Doctor."

"On it." Ryan answers seriously, giving the Civilian Commander one last somber look before rushing out of the room.

"Go with him." He turns to look at his other long-time friend, and Lester's eyes are dark and worried as they meet his. "Keep an eye on my Air Commander until I get there."

'Please' goes unsaid, but it's loud in his suddenly soft voice, and August doesn't even nod before running out of the bridge.

He manages to catch sight of the doctor before he turns down a corner, and follows.

By the time they get to the docks, he's barely shortened the distance between them.

The area is emptier than it was last time he was here, mostly because, unlike last time, the Tetrajets haven't been the guard units.

There are three empty docking areas on the Tetrajet part of the docks, one of them already opening to allow entrance to its craft.

Ryan is already at the bottom of the concrete ramp.

With an incredulous huff, he approaches at a trot.

He has just arrived next to the doctor when the cockpit opens, and a shocked Grant stumbles out.

The CMO rushes to meet him at the junction between ramps, but the pilot pushes him away with a scowl.

"I'm _fine_." He hisses, stomping down the ramp and looking over the two empty docking areas. "Is it true? Carter is…?" He doesn't finish the sentence, his eyes meeting the Civilian Commander with a pleading look.

The taller man's heart squeezes painfully.

"His signal went out. It didn't light up again." He says simply, and the pilot sags in his feet, Ryan already by his side to help him stay standing.

"No…"

The wall opens to let the second Tetrajet in, and a simple look from the medic has the emotionally stunned Third Wing with August's hands on his shoulders to help him upright, even though the man doesn't seem to notice.

Ryan hurries to the ramp as the craft starts the anchorage procedures, and the Civilian Commander can't help the worried frown on his features as he sees the shape of the nosecone.

It's a completely different image than seeing a blueprint with an area colored red.

Instead of the polished and pointy-ended oval that is an unharmed cockpit, this one seems to have been caved in, one side bent inwards almost halfway, and he can't help his shuddering breath.

The cockpits are small enough as they are, crowded almost to the point the pilots can barely shift inside, and the alloy that makes the outer hull of the Cybertronian and Tetrajets is the strongest yet lightest ever invented.

To have any part of the craft be harmed like that is a horrifying possibility. To have such damage happen to the cockpit can be lethal.

But Reeds has managed to fly back.

There's a loud hiss as the cockpit depressurizes, white vapor hiding it for an instant—before the most ear-splitting screeching sound fills the docks, snapping Grant out of his mind with a loud curse and forcing all of them to cover their ears.

Some seconds later, the sound stops with a loud thumping sound.

Only one of the upper lids of the cockpit has risen, the one from the undamaged side, and the lower lid has fallen all the way to the concrete ramp, the joint connecting it to the caved in part spitting sparks wildly.

There's black smoke coming from the inside of the cockpit.

The Civilian Commander and the pilot rush to climb the ramp, while the doctor stands in front of the lower lid, shielding his face with one hand.

"Air Commander, can you hear me?! Reeds!"

A shape hurls out from the smoke-filled cockpit, almost falling on top of Ryan as its footing on the metallic ramp fails.

With a yelp, the white-haired man manages to catch the blackened pilot before he smashes to the ground face first, and the other two quickly get to his side to help.

The man's uniform is blackened and burned in some places, though not too much. One leg is hanging limply, with the foot at an impossible angle showing it is broken, and so is the arm from the same side. Half his hair is smoking, burns covering the side of his face.

He has his eyes closed and is coughing nastily, dry and puffing out small clouds of smoke and too big and too many blood droplets, a string of dark red slipping down his chin.

"Th—Thun—?" A new bout of coughing cuts the Air Commander's words, ending with him throwing up a good two mouthfuls of blackened blood.

"Don't try to speak, we need to get you to Med Bay right now." Ryan orders, asking with a glance, and August, as the tallest and strongest, carefully maneuvers the injured man into his arms, wincing at his cries. "He must have broken ribs too. God, he's lucky he's even alive!"

When they get down the ramp, a group of doctors and nurses is running to them with a stretcher, and the Civilian Commander quickly complies when they reach them, carefully putting the man down.

Ryan rushes off with the rest of doctors crowding around the stretcher, and August is left alone with a really scared pilot on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

"I'm not going to lose him too, am I?" Grant whispers, voice so pained that the only thing the taller man can do is embrace him, as if he was a small child, and the Third Wing clings to him readily, burrowing his face in his dirtied uniform.

"Of course not. He's made it this far, and Ryan's the best doctor there is. Besides, he still has you to look after. He will make it." He answers softly, and the man in his arms starts to cry.

* * *

**UPDATE:** Changed the writing style, so things are now like this:

"Normal speech"

"_Phone conversation_"

_"Memories"_

"**Other language**"

::Comm lines::

Now, on with the original author note.

* * *

**AN:** So... I'm back. Actually, I've had my computer since Wednesday, and this chapter practically wrote itself on Monday (long train rides are boring). The real trouble came when it was time to get it ready to post, i.e. writing it on a Word and copying it to the Doc Manager, making sure everything's is as it should, look it over to correct typos, and all that.

The reason it took me so long to get it ready was the 'Curse of the Writer', in which 'the Writer knows _too much_'.

I hope the first part of this chapter isn't excessively confusing, since it isn't meant to be _too much_, and if you see any mistakes and the like, please let me know. Because every time I read it, I break down crying. Every. Single. Time. Without exception. And I can't just become detached, because then I miss errors, so... Tears make for difficult mistake-finding. If you find anything, please do tell.

Now, important announcement:

There will be no pairings in this fic. The only Romance will be Bromance. If you think it looks otherwise, you're free to think so, but it isn't it.

Also, about last chapter: I've been told a lot of good things about the song at the end, and it may be just me misunderstanding some messages, but just to make it clear, it is _not mine_. It's Linkin Park's _New Divide_, from 'Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen'. If you find some more lyrics, they're from it, too (I can't write poetry, least of all songs).

**Angel Heart:** I didn't know that first review was you XD. No problem about the half-done review, it made me feel fuzzy (as did the second).

The last two of the Main Four are finally here, and the pace is _really_ going to rush now! And actually, my brain seems to work better when it's not working, if that makes any sense? :P To other things, I'm really glad you liked the chapter and the new two characters, as well as the description about the uniforms. I was a bit afraid with that last one, didn't know if it would become tiresome or unrecognizable. Also, yes, if you've found the Big M in there, it's because he is.

About the scene in the hallway, I've read it over again and I can see what you meant. I'm going to play a bit with it once I get next chapter ready, so as to not leave you all hanging next week, and see if I can clear it, though I can't promise anything... I'll let everybody know when I decide to change it. Thanks a lot for telling, I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.


	6. Healing Wounds

Will sips from his tea almost with boredom, waiting for his friend to get changed out of his flight uniform, probably take a shower too, and come to meet him.

He arrived at the _Nemesis_ just to find it in the middle of an alert, so he was forced to wait in the entrance until it had been taken care of and the soldier on desk duty came back to his post.

Seeing this wasn't the first time such a thing happened, the scientist simply smiled and nodded at the apologetic man, accepting his pass and his words and simply going to the mess hall instead of the recreation room.

He knows that soldiers, specially those that went to the field, need some time to get back to normal, and Steve, being Air Commander, Second in Command and vain, takes even longer.

But it's already been an hour since he was let in.

There have been other times like this one, where the officers have to go through a longer debriefing, or even an impromptu meeting—since if there had been an appointed one someone would have already told him—so he's not really worried.

Truth is, he's more annoyed than anything else, because the coffee machine is broken and he has to make do with tea, and drinking tea because that's the only thing available isn't exactly a good reason to do so.

And thus, Will is glaring down his half-downed mug when the door opens.

He looks up almost half-heartedly, but does a double-take when he realizes it's Sanders approaching him.

He looks around trying to see if there's Dexter or someone else the Third in Command could be here to meet, but finds no one.

His chest clenches when the quiet man stops right in front of him and, with shaking hands, he lets the mug down and stands up.

"Did something happen?" He asks tremulously, mind flashing back to that first time, years ago, when a soldier had approached him after an attack, only to tell him that the Air Commander was in a meeting and wouldn't get out before visiting hours were over.

It had been some of the most horrifying twenty seconds of his life.

But it isn't a common soldier now. It's the Third in Command himself, and a known—to him, at least—friend of Steve's.

"Reeds was injured in the last attack."

And the world vanishes under his feet.

"What happened? How bad is it? Will he be alright?" He asks quickly, forcing himself to stop before he starts babbling.

"They were ambushed. He's in surgery right now, but the doctor was positive he would survive and recover. Known injuries include a broken arm, leg and unknown number of ribs. He also has suffered second degree burns on his head, and smoke poisoning."

Will sits down heavily, unseeing eyes drifting to the floor as his shaking hands curl around each other on his lap.

"But he will be alright?" He asks in a whisper, too stunned to look at the other man.

"Estimates are that he will make a full recovery, but since the extent of his injuries is unknown, it's not possible to say for sure at this time. And as for his mental state…" That last sentence gives the scientist enough strength to have his head snap up.

"What? Did he damage his brain? You said he had burns on his _head_…" Sanders shakes his head, and further words die in his lips.

"It is unknown if there is any sort of brain damage, but one of his wingmates perished when he went to his aid."

It takes almost a full minute for Will to understand those words.

When he does, he has to rest against the back of the chair to avoid falling down as his body goes limp with shock.

"Oh, God… That's…"

"Unfortunate and something hard to accept. Their third wingmate is already under medical care, and is to stay there for the rest of today and all of tomorrow. It was a… harsh loss for all those in the _Nemesis_." And Sanders' voice is softer, more human at those words. "It was… too sudden." He adds in almost a whisper, the scrapping of a chair being pulled back finally making the scientist look up at his companion. "Do you mind if I seat here?"

"Of course not." He answers softly, looking down at his previously unappealing mug of now cold tea.

"I'm going to get some myself. Do you want a refill?" The Third in Command asks, and he can just nod and hand over the cup.

The rest of his allowed hour as a visitor is spent in Sanders' silent but pleasant company.

Before they part, the Communications Officer promises to let him know as soon as Steve is cleared for visitors, even going as far as to assure him he'll get him a special pass to access Med Bay.

When he asks why, the Third in Command gives him a small smile and turns around.

"He's going to need you."

* * *

When Jazz wakes up it's to find himself in a really awkward situation.

He's in his bed, covered to the chin, and snuggling against a still sleeping Prowl's chest, the arms around his body holding him close to the other man.

It's not their position that's awkward, though.

Jazz twitches as a new shiver racks his body, trying to keep it in.

He needs to go to the bathroom _urgently_, but he doesn't want to wake the Commander-in-Chief, and neither does he want the other man waking up when he's gone.

He doesn't have much more time to choose, though, so he pushes a bit away from his boss to be able to see his face.

He looks peaceful when asleep, eyes closed, no sign of the usual tension or seriousness, auburn hair slightly tousled.

His heart beats painfully at the sight.

His boss, the Enforcer Commander-in-Chief and Second in Command of Civilian Government, one of the strongest people he knows… and here he is, hanging onto Jazz and hiding under the covers with him, like a toddler who woke up from a nightmare, after suffering the worst breakdown the Head of Special Operations has ever know about.

He hesitates to say they got something positive from it, because he's not sure remembering the man's name is worth what he went through.

Which is why he's going to wake him up instead of prying the slack arms from his body and go away silently.

"Prowl. Hey, Prowler, you hear me?" He asks softly, reaching up to run the back of his fingers along the man's cheek soothingly. "Prowl?"

After a second, a small frown appears on the face in front of his before sleep-muddled green eyes blink open.

Jazz feels a pang of pain at the sight, something, the same something that has been growing stronger since his outing with the Cybertronian, telling him that sight is wrong.

He knows better than to disregard his instincts, but he also knows it's no use beating himself over something he can't change.

So, he pushes the pain away and gives his boss—his _friend—_his signature grin.

"Hey there, Commander. I've got to go to the bathroom, 'kay?" The other man gives him a small nod, still looking more asleep than awake, before burrowing his face in the pillow.

Jazz can't help the small amused snicker going through his lips before slowly taking the arms off him and sitting up.

A hand closes tightly around his wrist before he stands, so harshly that he lets out a pained hiss before looking down.

Unfocused eyes filled with terror look up at him, and all pain vanishes as he moves to kneel next to the Commander-in-Chief, softening his features to give him a soothing smile.

"It's alright, Prowler, it's alright. I'm here." He whispers, almost cooing, as he caresses the man's cheek with his free hand. "I'm safe, we're both safe. But I really need to go to the bathroom. I promise I'll be back before you know it, but I have to go for a moment." Slowly, green eyes seem to focus more on him, and the grip on his wrist loosens a bit. "You need to let go of me now. I'll come back, I promise. Someone has to keep an optic on you, after all." He adds, the last sentence in a joking tone, and he's finally released with a sigh from his boss, who lays down on the bed while covering his face with a hand. "Be back in a bit, alright Prowl?"

"'kay…" The other Enforcer answers with a raspy voice, and Jazz smiles wider as he gets off the bed and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him but not locking it.

Just in case.

His wrist bears the angry red imprints of the Commander-in-Chief's forceful grip, and pulls a bit with a small ache when he moves it, but there's nothing more to it than the simple strain.

So, his smile when he steps out of the bathroom is genuine for more than one reason, feeling lighter in an almost literal sense.

The bed's empty.

The world tilts sideways, and he stumbles before managing to rest an arm against a wall for balance.

"_Prowl_?!"

"In the kitchen."

He snaps his head in the direction of the voice so fast that he hears his vertebrae crack, but he doesn't care, rushing towards the kitchen of his small apartment, almost tripping on something he doesn't bother to look down and identify, before slamming to a stop against the door ledge.

Dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a gray hoodie, Prowl looks up from his inspection of the items in his cupboard, looking curious.

Letting out a relived long mouthful of air he hadn't know he was keeping in, Jazz lets himself rest limply against the wall, head bowing down with a sharp stab of pain from his neck.

"Are you alright?" The man asks, a hint of worry in his voice as he approaches.

"Just don't… scare me like that. _Ever_." He answers breathlessly, straightening when a hand falls on his shoulder.

"I apologize. I thought I could get breakfast going while you were in the bathroom, but I can't find anything in here." His boss answers with an annoyed huff, and he has to snort at that, walking inside.

"Please, this is _my_ place. Did you really expect things to be where normal people puts them?" He asks cheekily, earning himself a deadpanned look that soothes him more than amuses, but he snickers anyway. "Looking for coffee, I guess? Some toast, maybe?"

"Exactly. Although I'm going to leave it to you while I get to the bathroom." Green eyes roll in mock exasperation before the man walks out.

"Touch my toothbrush and have your coffee burnt, mech!" He shouts back as he gets to work, and he catches the sound of an amused snort before the door clicks softly.

He feels more comfortable than he can remember in that instant, talking like he _knows_ he should, with weird words and names rolling easily off his tongue and not being weird at all, bantering with an old friend over everyday things…

He realizes he's humming when he stops, whatever song it had been not leaving a trace of memory, as he stares at the blinking light of his phone signaling a message.

Curious, and with the coffee brewing and some toast already on the table, he grabs it and looks at the screen.

Text message, from an unknown source.

Frowning softly, he leaves the phone on the table and turns to the coffee without opening it.

"Smells good." He yelps in surprise, almost managing to spill the incredibly hot liquid all over his hands as he fills two mugs, before hastily putting the jar down before something else happens.

He glares over his shoulders at the too amused and slightly smug Commander-in-Chief leaning against the door ledge, dressed in _Jazz_'s clothes and wearing only a pair of socks for footwear, but not looking any less for it.

"Real funny, boss-bot." He deadpans, turning his attention back to the coffee as the man takes a seat on the table.

"You have a message." Is the answer as he puts a mug of pure black liquid in front of his friend and sits on the chair opposites him, nursing his own, with milk, and not giving the phone that has his boss' attention a single look as he takes a sip of the warm beverage.

"I know." He reaches for a piece of toast and the jam, spreading some on it, before handing the jar to the green-eyed man.

"Not going to see what it's about?"

"I don't know who it's from."

"Ah, I see."

They stay silent after that, enjoying their breakfast and the half-comfortable atmosphere, as the phone keeps blinking almost innocently between them.

When he finishes his second piece of toast, Jazz grabs it and brings the message up.

It is _not_ anything he could have been expecting.

His dumbfounded expression tells that easily enough, and, before he knows it, Prowl is standing behind him, leaning forward with a hand on his shoulder and the other guiding the phone to a better angle for him to see.

"This is Soundwave." He reads almost absentmindedly, voice so low that it's barely more than a whisper. "Starscream is in stasis-lock." Their breaths hitch at that, both at seeing it for the first time and hearing it said aloud.

It sounds far more real like that.

"I have a bad feeling." The Head of Spec Ops whispers after some seconds of silence, twisting in his seat to look up at the stunned Commander-in-Chief. "A _real_ bad feeling."

"So do I."

The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip.

* * *

Waiting on his seat next to the medical bed the Air Commander is sleeping on, Soundwave lets his mind go back to the events of the morning.

Mainly, him waking up dizzy to find his pillow stained with blood.

A quick touch revealed it had been a simple nosebleed.

He doubts it is anything _simple_.

He had another dream, one he couldn't remember, with the exception of some voices.

_"_—_another lost—"_

_"_—_capture more—"_

_"_—_tighten the grip—"_

Just the memory of them makes him shudder, fear and hate warring inside him.

There is something really wrong with the world, and it doesn't look like it will get better anytime soon.

He looks up when the door opens, grateful for his sunglasses as his doubt and uncertainty are hidden behind the dark glass.

Commander-in-Chief Ron Fowler and Head of Special Operations Jazz Smith from the Enforcers nod gratefully at the assistant medic that has taken them to the room, closing the door behind them and approaching the men already there.

The Communications Officer gets to his feet as soon as the door closes, brow furrowing in concern.

"What happened?"

The two men freeze, surprised, before turning somber.

A humorless smile appears on Fowler's face as he looks away, and Jazz quickly rests a supporting hand on his shoulder.

"I remember my name now." The Civilian Second whispers, and Soundwave quickly crosses the distance to rest one hand on his free shoulder.

"I was the one who remembered, actually, though…"

"I remembered… _something_… and it triggered Jazz's memory." The Commander-in-Chief adds when the Civilian Third falls silent.

"Take a seat." He tells them, accompanying them to the chair he's been occupying and the empty one next to it.

From his lying position on the bed, Reeds looks at them with a hint of worry in his dull eye, the other, along that side of his face, covered in bandages.

The hand at the end of the cast twitches when they sit down, Jazz never taking his hand off his higher up.

"I—" The voice cracks almost dangerously, and the Air Commander scowls softly before calming down. "**I remembered something too.**"

One look at the other two is all that's needed to know they can read lips, too.

"What?" Jazz asks in a barely audible whisper, as if the Military Second's silence influenced him.

"**Thundercracker.**"

Soundwave tenses with a sharp gasp, hands turning into tight fists.

The Civilian Third's eyes are wide open, while his commanding officer is frowning in thought.

"Thundercracker…" The Commander-in-Chief repeats, almost as if tasting the word, before his eyes widen in realization.

"Theodore Carter." The Head of Special Operations confirms with a wide smile, turning to the other two—

And losing his smile in an instant.

The Communications Officer doesn't see it, but he can hear it in their breathing, just as clear as the lonely tear sliding down Reeds' cheek.

"Carter—Thundercracker… fell." His voice is barely more than a whisper, and the only visible dark eye closes with a grimace of pain.

"**My fault… My fault…**"

Soundwave reaches for the Air Commander's uninjured hand, pressed tightly in a fist, and squeezes it reassuringly, cutting the soundless repetitive words.

"Oh…" Jazz whispers, and a quick look shows Fowler shaking softly as he pulls the Civilian Third into a protective embrace, haunted green eyes closing with a shiver when the other man returns the gesture with a hint of worry. "Oh…"

"When…" The Commander-in-Chief's voice is raspy and almost crackling, and, despite his mouth moving, only that single word gets out.

Reeds moves his head to the side, so that only the bandaged side of his face is visible.

"**When I lost him.**"

The Communications Officer shudders almost violently, realizing that this is the first time the Air Commander has been awake since the attack.

He shouldn't know Carter's gone.

Slowly, he lowers himself to sit on the bed's edge, shaking so badly that he starts to doubt his legs will be able to hold his weight for much longer.

Two hands land on his thigh, and he looks up at the two Civilian Officers with wide but unseeing eyes.

Questioning and worried gazes meet his, and another realization dawns on him.

Turned away as he is, only Soundwave has been able to read the Military Second's answer.

"He… figured it out when… when he fell. But…" He looks at his superior officer, who tugs his hand back to grab the clothing over his heart, shaking softly.

It isn't an answer, yet, somehow, it is.

He has been having enough feelings as of later to acknowledge the difference between a hunch and knowledge, proof-less as it may seem.

The stiffening of the other two men tells him they know, too.

"Prowl." Slowly, all eyes turn to the Civilian Second.

No one asks, no one acknowledges the word for what it is, because they all know now.

They all _remember_.

There's something really wrong with the world…

A warm hand finds his again, and Soundwave clenches it back.

If they're side by side, they can figure it out.

Together.

"'Till all are one."

Everyone tenses, hands reaching for their chests as their hearts, the pulsing warmth going even deeper than the beating mass of muscle, _sings_.

"'Till all are one." Four voices repeat in unison, and the warmth grows, coursing through their veins, traveling to their whole bodies…

And they promise without words, without even exchanging a glance, their resolve growing stronger, Prowl's doubt pushed away, Jazz's worry soothed, Starscream's grief diffused, Soundwave's fear crushed.

Because they have each other, even when they are not together, even when the day comes that they will be lost.

There's something really wrong with their world, but they _know_, and knowing is half the battle.

Knowing means they can plan and _act_.

And these four men are the _best_ at both.

When Soundwave looks up, he meets two pairs of blue eyes and a single red one, and _knows_ his sunglasses shine red.

A smirk equal parts determined and dangerous appears on his face at the same time it mirrors on the three others.

Someone knocks on the door, and they almost jump out their armor.

… Armor?

By the bewildered looks they exchange, Soundwave knows he's not the only one who thought that.

Jazz snickers as he leans back in his own chair while Prowl scowls and Starscream rolls his visible eye, as the Communications Officer shakes his head in amusement, getting to his feet and approaching the door.

If not for the years of practice, he would have stared dumbfounded when he sees who is on the other side.

Will Daryl gives him a sheepish smile, the nurse with him looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Commander Sanders. I didn't know you were there." She tells him with slight nervousness, but he turns to the tall man.

"I got a change of schedule, and I thought I could come see him, even if he's sleeping." The scientist explains softly, trying to look over his shoulder.

After a second, he hears footsteps at his back.

"A friend of our dear Air Commander?" Jazz asks when he gets to the door, giving the surprised civilian a lazy grin. "Hey, William Daryl! Fancy meeting you here."

"Uh, do I know you…"

"No. But _I_ know of you. Let him come in, Commander. We were about to leave anyway." The Head of Spec Ops adds, turning to the Communications Officer, as the Civilian Second approaches them, as cold and composed as always.

And then, judging by Daryl's paler face and his wide eyes, the scientist realizes just _who_ he has been talking to.

"Second in Command Fowler and Third in Command Smith." The man whispers, and Jazz's cheeriness vanishes, leaving him looking professional, in what he knows is an annoyed response.

If people refer to him by a name that's not his, he will behave as the person he isn't.

Soundwave blinks, but manages to keep his expression schooled. How does he know that?

"Thanks for the meeting, Commander Sanders." Prowl cuts through swiftly, shaking hands with the Communications Officer. "We will be in contact." And those green eyes tell him exactly how much and why they will keep in touch.

He agrees to both his words and the meaning behind them with a nod, the grip on the other hand softening in gratefulness.

When the two Civilian Officers go away, he gestures for the stunned scientist to step inside and, to the other man's curiosity, follows.

"Commander Sanders? Uh, why—?"

"Air Commander Reeds is unable to speak at the moment. Unless you are knowledgeable about lip reading, you will need a translator." He cuts, approaching the curious pilot watching them from the bed and taking a chair to himself.

Slower, but with relief lightening his step, Daryl follows.

"Steve. You're fine." He receives a deadpanned look for that, but the scientist just chuckles as he sits down. "Well, better. At least you're awake." The Air Commander rolls his eye before turning to Soundwave with a questioning look.

Ignoring the curious man with them, the Third in Command nods in answer, telling his superior officer that he was both the one to tell Daryl about the incident and the one who cleared him for a visit.

That single dark eye shines with gratefulness and annoyance, but the Communications Officer just arches an eyebrow dryly in answer.

With a huff, the Air Commander turns to his confused friend.

"Al_right_…" The scientist drawls after a moment, before sitting back more comfortably against his chair and starting on the latest experiment he's working on.

Soundwave has to keep a small smile in check during the whole hour the visit lasts, unable to look away from the curious and completely hooked Air Commander while they discuss science.

When Daryl leaves, Reeds asleep once more, the Communications Officer accompanies him to the exit.

"Thank you." He says softly as they get to the door, and the scientist stops in shock. "He needed that."

After a second, the taller man regains the ability to talk, his features softening in a sad smile.

"He did, didn't he? I can only imagine what he's going through… I'm glad I was able to see him. Thank you for the chance."

Soundwave shakes the gratefulness off and bids Daryl a safe journey back before returning to his duties, feeling lighter at the knowledge warming that spot deep within.

* * *

**AN:** Travelling time is good for writing, but not for the writer. So, now that I am finally at my place and have Internet, there you go. Chapter for you and bed for me, and (almost) everybody happy. I'm going to hurt so badly tomorrow...

It's come to my attention thanks to a certain review (you know who you are, thanks a lot!) that the subtle hint of world-building I dropped in chapter two was _too_ subtle. If you remember, it was explained that Cybertronian had no windows and the Black Beasts were blobs identifiable by scans. The reason for the first is that the atmosphere is polluted by the Black Plague, which is a black mist, ergo, zero visibility. The second is closely related with the first because the Black Beasts _brought_ the Black Plague, which is in a tar-like state that evaporates in contact with something of Earth's atmosphere (take your pick, I didn't dwell too much in this, but if I had to say something, I'd say water).

To the Black Beasts, being covered by the tar-like Black Plague would be like being soaked by water to humans.

And, due to being covered by the same substance that, essentially, makes up the Earth's atmosphere now, the Black Beasts' 'life-signature' is camouflaged. Thus, scans are able to detect their presence, but unable to do more because of circumstances.

That's why Jazz was sent out, to use the better scanners on the prototype Cybertronian to try and get more information about them.

Now that I know that part of world-building wasn't where it should, I've modified Chapter 2 to include a couple of lines to explain it better (I hope). I have yet to change Chapter 4's scene in the hallway, though. I'll let you all know when I get to it.

If you find anything else of the like, please do tell. I'll solve it as soon as possible.

**Angel Heart:** Thanks a lot for reviewing and I'm glad you got what I meant. I love your reviews, I'm always so worried about things, about if they will be understood, if they are too messy... but you always manage to understand them and _let me know_. I'm so relieved to know about these kind of things, they let me breath easier and keep writing.

Thundercracker... The only thing I can say is because it had to happen. But! Everything has a reason, even the least important detail. If it is there, more so if it is physically written instead of just implied, it has a reason to be.

**SeekerAngel:** You're welcome! I apologize for answering here instead of the AN of Chapter 5, but I didn't want to risk modifying last chapter if you had already read it. As to your inquiries, I'm glad you're curious, but you don't want me answering them just like that ;) All in due time. Also, did you get an account? 'Cause I had this Favourites Alert from someone who has the same name, and now I'm curious.


	7. One Step Forward, Three Steps Back

Walking is a pain, for more reasons than one, but he refuses the wheelchair.

Rather vehemently, at that.

Was he a lesser man, Shepherd's rant and glowering gaze would have convinced him to swallow his pride and accept it, but Steve Reeds, Air Commander and Second in Command of the _Nemesis_, is not a lesser man.

And Starscream yields to _no one_.

So, he spends two extra days in Med Bay before they get him a special knee-high boot for his broken leg so that he can walk, even if it is with an obvious limp.

They would have given him a crutch, too, but it isn't as if he can use it with his broken arm.

So, despite going slowly, he has regained mobility again.

Commander Storm still refuses to let him in a Cybertronian, at least until his arm has healed enough that he can get rid of the sling.

The plaster will still be annoying, but he will be able to maneuver around the cockpit without it hindering him.

Once his Tetrajet is repaired and he's proven himself in the simulator.

Oh, and the bandage _still_ covering his eye needs to go, too.

… At least he can talk again, albeit raspier and screechier than before. _Joy_.

"Air Commander!" He stops with a small sneer, barely managing to keep his anger down, before looking back at the owner of the voice.

He relaxes when he sees the Sanders siblings approach him, looking happy or annoyed in some degree, with the three dark-haired ones practically bouncing as they get to his side.

"At ease, kids. I'm off-duty." The twins scowl, but the other three smile even brighter, looking up at him with eyes glinting with awe and respect.

Talk about worshiping.

Well, the dark-haired siblings have all taken aerial training, while the twins have taken ground force's, so he guesses it's to be expected.

He _is_ the best flier, after all.

"How did your first outing go?" He asks, resuming his walk towards the mess hall to get something to eat.

He signed their permits the previous day, for a routine check of the sensors surrounding the Protectodome. Nothing dangerous, not usually, but an escort for the repair drones is needed when it comes to the sensors farther away.

Seeing as there has been no alarm, and the five of them are by his side, he's going to bet that it went alright.

Which means…

"It was _boring_!" The twins exclaim in unison, and he chuckles over the girl's rebuke.

"Routine checks are supposed to be." He answers, bearing their glares like they're nothing.

"It was _amazing_, sir." Buzz counters, bouncing a bit along Ralph. "The feeling of being airborne is _nothing_ like the simulator."

"Yes, it was _the best_." His sister agrees, with the youngest nodding enthusiastically.

"Being on a ground Cybertronian wasn't all that different."

"We want to pummel Black Beasts!"

"It will come." He tells the twins, who are still scowling, but now look more dejected than annoyed. "But for it to happen, you need to have experience on the field, and these routine checks will grant you that. Whatever you have heard, whatever you think you know from the simulator, the real deal is a lot harsher." He stops for a moment, his leg throbbing and his chest squeezing painfully.

_"__Got you!"_

He shivers, a hand grasping the cloth over his heart as his eyes close, his broken limbs burning at the memory of the impact.

_"__You're ours now."_

He hasn't told anyone, not even Sanders, because he doesn't really know the truth himself.

Was it his head playing tricks on him? Was it a result of the impact, of his desperation and pain as he tried to regain control of the Tetrajet?

It must have been, because there's no way he could have heard voices with his comm system fried.

And yet, he can still hear the _snap_ in that warmth deeper in his heart when Thundercracker was ripped away from him.

_"__Get away from my Trine Leader!"_

A small spot on his arm grows warmer, so, curious and confused, he looks down.

There's a hand on it.

A hand attached to a black-haired teenager girl, surrounded by more equally worried boys around her age, the smallest clutching one of the twins in almost fear.

"Commander Reeds?"

It takes him a blink to recognize his name. His _other_ name.

Another blink and a shake of his head, and he lets the hand over his heart fall to his side.

"Just tired, Lizzie. You don't have to worry." He tells them, suddenly feeling worn out, as he gives them a weak smile. "I'm going to get something to eat from the hall, and retire early."

"We're coming with you." The twins answer in unison, the other three nodding, and his smile grows a bit before he resumes his walk.

"Suit yourselves. You were telling me about your outing?"

They comply, walking perhaps a bit closer than before, as they start on their rambling and whining and excited tales.

When they get to the mess hall, they leave him on a table while they go get their food, and Ralph stays with him.

As soon as his siblings have turned away, the youngest starts to fidget nervously as he slips a bit closer.

"Something wrong?" The kid looks around subtly before moving to the point they're almost touching.

"John's sick." It sends a sharp jolt of pain down his broken limbs, but he manages to keep his body from tensing at the whisper. "Has bad nosebleeds at night." Big brown eyes look at him pleadingly, and he finds himself at a loss of words for a second.

"Has he told someone? The medics?" The teenager shakes his head softly, and he has to frown. "Is there something else?"

"Real _bad_ headaches. Was with us two days ago, went away quickly and wobbly. Said he had work, but…" He nods softly, looking down at the table and pondering the information. "Doesn't sleep much nor good." He gives the kid a quick look, and notices how he's rubbing under one of his eyes, as if sleepy.

Bags under the eyes. Hidden by those accursed sunglasses, most likely, but with Ralph being so small, the angle wouldn't be able to hide them completely.

He shivers softly, unable to suppress it.

First, Prowl remembers something that makes _Jazz_ act like a mother-hen. Now, Soundwave's suffering from lack of sleep and what sound like migraines.

And he himself was victim to one of those phenomena, when he first saw Sanders before the 'flu crisis', something that melted his chest and _literally_ burnt his throat.

What will be next? And will the Third in Command snap out of the most recent pain cycle?

He pushes the thoughts aside as the rest of the teenagers come back, handing them their trays, and his attention is turned once more to their chatting and the food.

He'll have to talk to the Communications Officer, even if—

He hunches into himself so sharply that he's surprised he hasn't slammed his forehead against the table.

Although he doubts he'd be able to feel it over the blazing pain in his chest and the high-pitched explosion in his brain, almost as if Thundercracker had released a sonic boom inside his cranium.

Both his hands are clutching his head, his throat strained and closed tight with a silent scream as he shakes harshly, eyes closed with enough strength to have him see splotches of light behind his eyelids.

Splotches of dark blue and white and a smaller purple one and a line of red fill his vision as—

_—__the scream grows louder and far more agonizing than any being can be responsible for before—_

—his broken leg slips as he skids around a corner, his plastered arm coming down to keep him upright as he almost falls, but that pain is _nothing_ in comparison to—

_—__what they are doing, they don't listen no matter how much he screams and begs and shakes—_

—his head, but the something warm trailing over his lips and down the sides of his neck doesn't stop falling, yet he doesn't care, it's just blood—

_—__covering the body, the floor, the tools, and the wailing and screaming never stop, just grow weaker, and he—_

—almost punches through the panel as he inputs his override code, the door whooshing open too slowly for his tastes, and _there—_

_—__unable to speak, not strong enough for anything, but he still manages to meet his optics—_

—and he sees the same tears of blood streaming down Soundwave's face as there are on his own, red dripping down his ears, and nose, but he manages to get up and—

_—__he grabs him and they slid to the floor, too weak to stay upright, but not defeated, never broken, even if—_

"**—there was nothing inside… but memories left abandoned… There was nowhere to hide… the ashes fell like snow… And the ground caved in… between where we were standing… and your voice was all I heard… that I get what I deserve—**"

Their voices break at the same time, just like they started talking in unison, and they know that the voice laughing in their minds is _not_ theirs.

Hate and pain and desperation flood them even as the darkness claims them.

* * *

Prowl is surprised and a bit embarrassed when Civilian Government Commander August Prime enters his office looking like he's expecting to be jumped by a Black Beast just by doing so.

Only a bit, though. He _won't_ apologize for protecting Jazz, but he has to admit he could have done it without trying to rip his superior officer to shreds, no matter if he was stopped.

"I'm sorry." The man tenses at his words, the door having just closed at his back. "About our last meeting. I could have handled it better."

"It's alright. You were—um, you were in pain. No one can blame you for being a bit, uh, explosive?"

He has to smile at that, and his nod is more than enough for the other to relax.

"To what do I owe this visit?" He asks, pushing the report he's reviewing to the side, and August's calm is quickly overwhelmed by worry.

"There was an… a… Ugh, to Hell with it all." He tenses at the uncharacteristic cursing as the taller man grimaces, looking away for a second before meeting his wide green eyes again. "Sanders and Reeds are in the Med Bay."

"They're burning with high fever again?" He asks, the surprise in his voice hiding his worry as he forces himself not to fidget.

The somber look on Prime's face, though, is enough to make him pale.

"Minor brain hemorrhaging." His breathing hitches in his throat and his hands, crossed over his desk, start to tremble.

"_What_?"

"Shepherd is kicking himself with Reeds', blaming himself for missing something, and he's been told Sanders was suffering from migraines, insomnia and sudden nosebleeds for some days, but… Storm's worried. It's the second time in the last half year his Second and Third are out of commission at the same time and… He wants Spec Ops to look over the situation, in case… just in case." His already wide eyes widen even more, and August nods in confirmation.

Both men look away for some seconds, processing the words said and those implied.

And then, Prowl nods and grabs his phone, silently grateful he put Jazz's number on speed dial as he puts it to his ear.

The Civilian Government Commander looks slightly surprised at the movement, but stays silent.

"_Hey there, Prowler!_"

"We have a situation." He cuts seriously, disregarding the nickname, and the other end of the line is silent for a couple of seconds in surprise.

"_Be there in five._"

The call has already been ended before he can even think of a response.

Since he wasn't about to answer, though, he just puts the phone back in place and crosses his hands over his desk.

"I'm going to need as much information as you can give me."

"Uh, of course." August nods, a bit stiff with worry and surprise.

For a second, for even less than that, Prowl thinks about telling Prime about the messed up records and their own tampered with memories.

But the instant is over barely after it began, and he stays silent.

There's nothing about Civilian Government Commander August Prime that pushes him to it, not even the deeply ingrained trust and friendship nurtured during their long years of working together.

Besides, he's not the most perceptive of the four of them when it comes to things that are but aren't as they should, so he'll leave the decision to Jazz.

"There's not much more I can tell you than Storm's suspicions. He was worried enough to keep it all to himself, to disclose it only with Spec Ops, just in case."

"He doesn't trust you?" He asks with a small frown, because Lester Storm is one of Prime's oldest friends, along Ryan Shepherd, after all.

"He doesn't trust there isn't someone watching me." The taller man answers, blue eyes icy, and Prowl twitches almost imperceptibly.

Isn't he trusted anymore?

"I'm worried about him too, Fowler. If someone is _really_ targeting his Second and Third, how long until they go for him? And how long until it costs us our Military?"

_That_ is a scary thought.

A nightmare that was too close to becoming real, in that horrifying Black Day, and that no one wishes to see repeated.

_How long?_

The door opens almost as soon as the knocking sounds, and the newcomer doesn't walk, doesn't saunter, doesn't skip inside.

He simply _is_.

There's no sign of his usual cheeriness, of that ever annoying cocky smirk or even more annoying innocent little smile, nor the levity he usually carries himself with.

The door closes at his back almost as if it had the consciousness to do so on its own, and the man doesn't move.

The fluidity of his every move is still there, but the elegance it usually gives him is now buried under something sharp, something _predatory_.

_This_ is not the Third in Command of the Civilian Government.

_This_ is not the Head of Special Operations.

_This_ is not Captain Smith.

_This_ is the scariest and last thing the most dangerous scum inside the Protectodome see.

_This_ is Jazz.

The visor-like blue-tinted glasses he is wearing only enhance that predatory air.

He is not surprised when he is _not surprised_ at the warmth growing from deep within himself.

_See you later, Jazzmeister. Welcome, Jazz the Weapon._

It takes only a second after the thought for Prowl to bury his face in his hands with a defeated groan while the Civilian Third smirks widely, taking off his glasses and plopping down in the empty seat with all his usual cheeriness.

They have been spending far too much time together, if _that_ thought has been the Second in Command's.

A hand taps his shoulder almost condescendingly, and he knows Jazz knows too what he had been thinking, as impossible as that sounds.

"Don't worry, boss, it won't kill you." The newcomer chirps happily, and Prowl simply swats his hand away before straightening, ignoring the soft snickers and Prime's dumbfounded and completely lost expression.

"That has yet to be proved." He deadpans, which makes Jazz's grin widen, before both straighten and turn serious. "Both Air Commander Reeds and Communications Officer Sanders are in the Medical Bay due to minor brain hemorrhaging. Nothing seems to point at both cases being related, but Supreme Commander Storm wants Special Operations on it, in case there's something, or someone, behind those incidents." He summarizes, looking at August, who confirms it with a nod, all business once more.

"Understood, Sir. I'll arrange a meeting with both CMO Shepherd and Commander Storm to get the details, and I'll report possible courses of action after that." Jazz answers, dark eyes somehow looking paler as he nods.

"Dismissed." Putting his glasses on again, the Third in Command saunters out of the room whistling a popular tune as if nothing had happened, leaving his superior officers to sit tensely in the office when the door closes. "He'll keep an eye on Storm too, don't worry." Prime nods, but doesn't look up at him.

"I guess we can just wait now… Will you…?"

"I'll keep you updated." He answers softly, and the Civilian Government Commander finally looks up, gratefulness in his eyes and smile.

"Thank you, old friend." He smiles back, but as soon as the door closes and he's left alone, it vanishes.

He has a really bad feeling that keeps growing the longer he thinks about the situation at hand.

A feeling originating not in his gut or in his brain, but in the deepest recesses of his _heart_.

He wants to know what is going on as much, or more, as the Supreme Commander and the Civilian Government Commander, but at the moment, those are not the questions he wants answered.

When did Sanders and Reeds start looking into the matter of missing officers?

When did they become Soundwave and Starscream, and how?

And how long until Jazz and himself become targets?

* * *

He doesn't need to look to open the door and lock it once he's inside.

He doesn't need sight, either, to know he's not alone in his apartment.

He just smiles.

And lets himself fall backwards.

As expected, he finds himself against a warm chest with arms around him, keeping him upright, as his head rests on a strong shoulder.

"That bad?"

"Nah. It's just—"

"—that it gets worse." He nods and simply stays where he is, feeling the pulse of a beating heart against his back and warm breaths caressing his neck and shoulder.

After a couple of minutes, he opens his eyes.

And almost flinches away.

Something must have showed, because Fowler releases him and steps back, though making sure he's standing on his own before doing so.

"Sorry. I can't… Can't seem to get used to your eyes." He whispers, not looking at the man at his back.

There's no answer, but none was expected.

"You should go rest." He feels more than hears the footsteps as his superior officer walks away, and he hunches into himself almost without thought.

"So should you." He says instead, putting his keys in his jacket's pocket before throwing it on the sofa, where the other is sitting. "Bedroom's that way."

"Jazz—"

"Wasn't a request." He cuts nonchalantly, but they both know it's not that simple.

"Was it really that bad?"

His hand stills just before touching the fridge.

What seems like an eternity later, he lets it fall with a shuddering sigh.

"No. There's an explanation, medical and logical, and everything's right. It's just… that things are _right_."

He can hear steps that time, so he whirls around with distress making his body quiver and clear on his face.

Green eyes look over him with worry and a darkness that is more telling than alarms blazing loudly.

"And the first time?"

Four simple words.

They're more than they need.

Jazz's mission is to find out if there's someone behind the SIC and TIC of the Military Force being once more in the Med Bay. He has found nothing pointing to it this time.

But there was one other occasion when something similar happened.

And despite there being a less solid medical explanation, he still _can't find anything_.

Or, to tell the truth, nothing he can write on a report.

Because deep in his chest, the warmth cloaking his heart becomes a chill every time he thinks about it, and he knows Prowl feels the exact same thing.

"It's related."

To the tampered with reports. To the non-existent officers. To their names not being _theirs_.

It's not a question.

Which means there's no answer.

"You still have to talk with them."

Yes, he knows, he doesn't need someone else to tell him… But that's the thing.

He _knows_.

"Always wanting more."

He speaks with a smile, but inside he's frowning.

He's not sure he can find more. Not this time.

"You need to rest."

He wants to fight the hand on his shoulder, lightly guiding him to his bedroom, but he doesn't.

He's not sure if it's because he doesn't really want it, or because he simply can't.

He feels more drained than ever before.

"It feels nothing like the Cybertronian."

Like being trapped outside the Protectodome, lost to the world and to the mercy of unmerciful variables.

This helplessness is far more pressing.

Prowl knows, so he doesn't do more than help him sit on his bed.

He takes off his shoes almost as in a trance, mind going over the facts he's put together once, twice, thrice, before he manages to throw away his jeans and shirt and crawl under the covers, curling in as small a ball as possible.

The mattress dips, the covers lift, and two warm arms press his back against a seemingly warmer chest.

He just turns around and rests his head under his companion's chin.

"Thanks."

The embrace only tightens, so he lets himself relax a bit.

They have their own apartments, they don't need to be physically together, and yet…

This is the third time Prowl has shared his bed since the 'breakdown incident', and he's been in the Commander-in-Chief's twice, always after tiresome days, without them needing to exchange even a word.

They were just there.

Like he knows Soundwave has been for Starscream, and the Air Commander was for him when—

He tenses at the new thought, and the body curled around his tightens its embrace.

"Think it was like it was for you."

The increased tension is an echo of the pain that brought a man to his knees crying like a heartbroken bondmate instead of a protective gesture, and he knows the other has understood—

Heartbroken bondmate.

It sounds contradictory, yet somehow accurate, and he feels warm inside.

There's something right in there, but he doesn't know _what_.

Yet, what matters now isn't terminology, so he lets it go.

"A memory?"

"I'm not sure."

And the embrace is broken as he pulls back to look into alien yet familiar green eyes.

"They said Reeds was in the mess hall when he suddenly curled up grabbing his head, as if in pain, before he shot out of the room. They found them slumped against each other in Sanders' quarters, bleeding from nose, ears and eyes, unconscious, and called the medics."

His frown is of worry, but it soothes a bit when he sees Prowl's calculating one.

"Could be… But that would mean… that Starscream knew about Soundwave…"

"Or that they were in the same situation."

They look into each other's eyes, a myriad of emotions flickering through them, none staying for too long.

"Is that even possible?"

"Should it not be?" He answers instead, and Prowl stiffens with eyes wide in what looks like an epiphany.

Because two people thinking the same—reliving the same—at the same time should be impossible, but so should brainwashing a whole Protectodome.

They need to stop thinking about _what is possible_, and start on _what has no reason not to be_.

Judging by the Commander-in-Chief's grimace, this is fodder for migraines.

So, he chuckles and snuggles close again, feeling the warmth and the beating heart and the body relax.

"Sleep now. War meeting tomorrow."

Something prickles at the back of his head, but he pushes it away. They both need rest, not more information to keep them up all night.

"Did you see them?"

But, after all, Prowl has always been an inquisitive guy.

"Yeah." They stay silent for a bit, and Jazz presses closer and feels the grip around him tighten protectively. "They… Call me crazy, but they… they weren't _all there_."

They both shudder at that.

"'Till all are one." He shivers a bit at the whispered words, but finds himself smiling before he can process the gesture.

Yes, things might not be… ideal, right now. But they are together, and he knows the two Military officers will pull through.

They're all too stubborn for their own good, the four of them.

"'Till all are one." He whispers back, and that's the last he knows.

* * *

He is dreaming.

In his dream, the world is orange.

In his dream, there are symbols that are words, and words that are symbols.

In his dream, computers talk the same languages as people.

In his dream, he cares.

For the towering ones and the small ones, for those his size and those that run underfoot.

For the white and the black, for the yellow and the red, for any and all of the spectrum.

For the fliers and the swimmers, for the runners and the watchers, for the listeners and the talkers.

For the young and the old, for the ancient and the newborn.

For the naive and the bitter, for the happy and the sad, for the harmless and the dangerous.

For the present and the absent, for the now and the will be.

In his dream, he scolds and jokes, he orders and obeys, he laughs and mourns.

In his dream, he has family that are friends, and friends that are family.

In his dream, he is high and he is below, he is gigantic and he is dwarfish.

In his dream, he has a name that is not his own.

In his dream, he is called Prowl.

* * *

**AN:** Every time I think about or read this chapter, with all its plot twists, I can't help but think 'curveball'. Huh.

More from Linkin Park's _New Divide_ and some more bromance (not romance, won't write that, though I won't mind if you want to think of it that way).

New confusing scenes. Hope the last one doesn't become too 'repetitive', but there was no other way I could write it. I tried.

**Updated** with new writing pattern to differentiate "Speech" / _"Memories" _/ ::Comm lines:: / "**Different language**"

**Angel Heart:** Nice to read from you again, and a big hug and thank you for everything! I'm glad you're enjoying both the story and the 'word-play'. How can such a simple thing be that difficult will forever remain a mystery to me, but I'm happy it's working, as well as character interaction. Since this is a completely different situation, they have to be OOC, but I'm trying to keep them in character as much as possible, which is one of the biggest headaches with this story, so I'm glad I'm doing something right. And about reasons for doing things... oh, I have them... and the ZPBM has even more (cross fingers).


	8. Baby Steps

Soundwave hasn't even opened his eyes, but he already knows today is not going to be a good day.

Hints of his dream whisper to him, but grow fainter the longer he's awake.

By the time he realizes he's in Med Bay, he barely remembers anything from it.

Slowly, he gets to his feet and out of the bed, taking his time as his legs adjust to bearing his weight, before walking out of the room, brushing away the memories even when the sight of those well known, albeit white, walls try to bring details back.

A dream is a dream, and that's it.

But then he walks in front of another room, and even his breathing stops for a second.

Air Commander Steve Reeds is lying on the bed, half of his head bandaged and the visible eye closed.

And Third Wing Sky Grant is sitting on a chair, back to the door, his torso resting on the mattress next to his wingleader's stomach, with one arm cushioning his head and the other in front of him, clasping the limp tanned hand in front of his face.

Soft sobs cut through the silence every few seconds.

Soundwave's shoe-less feet make no noise as he takes a step forward to be able to lean on the doorway, gaze never leaving the pale thumb caressing darker skin almost lovingly.

"You were right."

The Communications Officer tenses sharply at the rough and broken voice, but doesn't move, doesn't make a sound.

He's not part of the scene in front of him.

He should go.

But his legs are already shaking and his head is throbbing softly, and he's not sure his body would react to the order to move.

"You were both right. I'm an idiot." Grant's shoulders shake with another sob at the end of the croaked words, and it takes him some seconds to stop shaking. "I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot… I'm nothing but a burden, a nuisance…" There's a hiccuped cry accompanied by another shudder, and the man presses himself closer to the bed.

His caressing thumb never stops its movement.

"I didn't even come to visit, and now… I don't—I don't know… I was scared." The voice is still rough, but when it drops to a whisper it sounds more like a little child than a grief-stricken adult. "Ted was gone, and you were so badly hurt—I didn't—I didn't want to…" The shoulders shake once more with a deep breath and another sob. "I didn't want to lose you too." Grant curls even closer to the bed, his messy long hair sticking up as he presses his head against the unconscious man's side. "I… I guess I thought that if—if I didn't see how hurt you were, if I acted like it was nothing… that it would be nothing." The laughter that follows is filled with so much pain and guilt that Soundwave shudders, something cold going down his back.

A small frown appears on the tanned face, but the eye remains closed.

"I'm the worst kind of idiot, am I not? The King of Idiots." The humor laced with those words is dark enough to send grown men running on the opposite direction, but his legs don't obey, just keep shaking. "And then, when they said you would make it… I used my work as—as an excuse. I had to do your job as Air Commander, but… it was just an excuse. I didn't—didn't want to see you…" The already low voice lowers even more as Grant burrows his face into the sheets. "Because if I saw you, and you were injured, it would mean that Ted had been lost, and I couldn't—" The sentence is broken by an almost violent shudder.

The thumb is no longer caressing the hand, clinging to it instead, and a dark eye slowly blinks open halfway.

"I… I convinced myself that you two were just—just down with a simple illness, some kind of flu or something, and that you would show up any hour like nothing had happened, to make fun of me, and nag me for the way I do the reports, and to let me drag you to watch a movie, and—" There's a wet sob that time, the shivers coursing through the black and purple-clad body not diminishing. "And I knew I was lying to myself, but I didn't want to stop, I didn't want to _see the truth_… I'm so sorry." The crying starts softly, but it takes only a second before it gains strength.

The half-bandaged head tilts a bit to the side and down, so that the uncovered eye can analyze the broken man clinging to the limp hand.

"I—I should have—should have been there… by your s-s-side… I would have kno-known if something was—was wrong… I-I-I'm an idiot, I'm useless!" The cry is muffled by the sheets the face is pressed into, but the pain echoes in Soundwave's chest with enough strength that it makes him instinctively reach out to grasp the clothing over his heart.

But his hands don't move, despite the urge to soothe the pain, to cover the vulnerable area.

He just stands there, leaning against the doorway, and watches as an arm covered by a cast reaches over the prone man's stomach to let the hand rest against the tangled mass of hair.

Grant falls silent with a jolt, stiffening but not moving.

The hand still clasped by the paler one moves so that it is holding the other instead, and this time the thumb caressing is tanned.

"You're not useless, Sky."

The voice is raspier than the Third Wing's, and almost weaker, but the words are a soothing rumble instead of a croak of disuse.

Grant starts to tremble again, but the face hidden against the sheets doesn't move, letting the hand on his head straighten the tangled locks.

"You could never be. And acting like an idiot most of the time doesn't make you one." There's a loud sob as the hunched body shudders harsher, but the caresses never stop. "I should have been by your side."

The black-clad body stiffens before the head rises enough so that wide brown eyes meet the single dark one, guilt and pain and sorrow as easily seen as the tears falling down Grant's unkempt stubble-covered cheeks.

"But you…"

"I'm—I'm wingleader." A flash of something darker than pain appears on the visible eye as the Air Commander stumbles with his words, but it's gone so quickly that he's sure Grant has missed it. "I should have taken care of you. Both of you."

The silence that fills the room is uncomfortable and sharp as blades, waiting just for the wrong move, the wrong word, to cut deeper than flesh.

"And I'm your wingmate. I'm the one supposed to have your back. Well, your side." The silence shatters with the weak words, but it's the soft chuckling that makes it vanish.

"You're slow enough to have my back too, Sky." The rasp is louder, more like the croaking of a little used voice, but a welcome sound nevertheless.

Grant snorts before composing himself enough to scowl.

"Keep thinking that, Stevie. And don't call me 'Sky'. My parents were really drunk the day they named me. Sky? Seriously? The sky's just… a myth. A fool's hope." The small amount of cheeriness that had managed to come up is smothered again, harshly.

The Air Commander doesn't stop his petting, and, after some time in silence, the somber expression on the Third Wing's face relaxes as the eyes close.

"A fool's hope as a fool's name. Guess it's fitting after all."

"It is." Brown eyes snap open as the body tenses, but the single one looking into them is as filled with warmth as those two words. "The sky's freedom, endless possibilities, a new surprise with every look. It brings rain and sun to nurse life, and hides an uncountable number of stars to fill hearts with wonder and heads with dreams. And it can be fierce and dangerous, when it unleashes blizzards and storms, only to let us see that what it wields is joy, when children play with the fallen snow and flowers grow where there were puddles. The sky is a world in and on itself. Just like you."

The silence that fills the room then is strangely charged, like the site of a lightning strike, heart beating wildly with both awe and joy at having been so close to such danger yet getting out alive and with the memory of the impossibly beautiful event.

Soft scratching makes Soundwave blink back to the physical world, where Grant has moved his chair to be able to lay his head on his wingleader's chest, dry tear-trails on his cheeks and eyes closed as he listens to the beating heart against his ear, a tanned hand still stroking his hair while the other arm surrounds his torso in an awkward embrace.

As strange as the image is, it is also heartwarming.

And yet, he can't seem to focus on it, something nagging at the back of his brain about missing something, about something not being right…

But despite him being in the Med Bay for a reason he can't remember, what _is_ wrong?

He's in the _Nemesis_, there's no Black Beast alarm on… Oh, and, last he remembers, all his paperwork was up to date, including the latest attack report as well as the draft for the next meeting with the Civilian Government—

Civilian Government.

Civilian Government of the _Ark_ Protectodome.

There's no sky under a Protectodome.

And yet, he can see, as clear as if it was happening before his very eyes, the dark sky being parted by a spear of light, the lightning bolt slamming into the ground where he'd been standing less than a second before, metal shining under the flash, a circle of sand turned glass—

He blinks the memory away and looks into a single red eye.

His knees wobble as memories assault him, of a name that isn't his, of people that aren't who they are, of sitting on his desk working on his reports before finding himself suddenly in the darkness, surrounded by screams of _agony—_

"Sanders!"

His legs fail him and the ground comes closer—

Something black and purple catches him and the ringing of clashing metal makes him wince.

Wait, _what_?

Opening eyes he doesn't remember closing, he looks up into Reeds' worried bandaged face, Grant nowhere to be seen—

But the metallic chair he'd been sitting on is lying on the ground, the metallic floor characteristic of the _Nemesis_.

The _carpet-covered metallic __floor_ of Med Bay.

The arms around his torso help him stand upright, and all thoughts fly away when Ryan Shepherd is almost literally in his face.

"Just what do you think you are doing, walking around on your own?! Who gave you permission to even get out of bed?! I'll tell you, no one! Stupid officers that can't stay still even if their life is on the line—go back to your room!"

He can feel Grant's body shaking with muffled laughter, since he's the one keeping him upright, and hear Reeds' chuckling even over the doctor's angered rambling and exaggerated gesturing, so he glares over the black-covered shoulder to the man on the bed.

Looking incredibly amused, the Air Commander smiles widely, waving a hand at him as his wingmate helps the Communications Officer back to his room, the white-haired man almost stomping in front of them.

With a resigned sigh, John Sanders steels himself for the lecture he's about to receive, while Soundwave goes over the facts once more.

Names that aren't theirs, manipulated records, missing officers no one has even met, and only four aware that things aren't as they should.

He can only shiver as he realizes that, up until he'd looked into Starscream's eye, that number had been down to three.

* * *

It's only when he sees a very familiar composition list for the third time that Will realizes he's been reading the same paragraph all the time.

With a defeated and a bit frustrated sigh, he pushes the datapad away and puts his elbows on the table to hide his face in his hands.

Another well-known line appears on the forefront of his brain, and he feels like growling.

_Request denied._

Two simple words, thirteen letters with one space and a dot.

And his world has vanished from under his feet.

Although, to tell the truth, it isn't what was written, but what _wasn't_, that has turned him into the wreck he's now.

First time in years that a requested meeting with Second in Command and Air Commander Steve Reeds has been denied, and there isn't even a _reason_.

He's had requests modified before, such as delaying them a couple hours or days, and has had to put up with Steve's rambling about how boring the meeting was and how much better used his time would have been if they'd let him go to his friend, but never before has a request been plainly denied.

He opens his eyes in an effort to vanish the words seemingly printed on the inside of his eyelids, but they don't go away, and neither does the anxiety and worry.

The table under his elbows is starting to look like a good spot to bang his forehead against with every passing second. Perhaps if he hits it hard enough, things will start to make _sense_.

And yet, he's a scientist. He knows banging his head against a hard surface won't help.

It doesn't make it any less tempting.

With a defeated groan, he lets himself bend over the table, his forehead thumping softly against it, and his arms falling over his head.

He doesn't even know if there was an attack, how is he supposed to know what has happened to his friend? _How_?!

"Will? You alright there?"

He lets out a soft sigh, guilt slowly making his way through his body, before he straightens again, running a hand through his short platinum hair.

"Yes, Jack. Just… lost in thought." He answers, collecting himself before looking up at his friend and fellow scientist.

Timothy Jackson, or Jack, as he prefers, is analyzing him almost as intently as a new sample, which doesn't bode well for the receiver of said look, since Jack's practical work tends to… have a shorter lifespan than it should, to put it mildly.

Not that he isn't a good man and great scientist, as well as one of the most important inventors of the century, but his enthusiasm tends to have him overlook small things, minor things… that make his inventions explode.

Ryan 'The Hatchet' Shepherd was stationed in the Civilian Government's Med Bay until Percy and Will joined Jack's team. The reason for the change was that, with the extra eyes looking over the inventions before the field tests, the number of explosions was greatly reduced, so the doctor followed the call of duty and relocated to where the next most dangerous injuries were received.

The fact that the Science Division of _Civilian Government_ has a higher risk than the Military Force still makes people laugh.

"Don't know, you didn't seem to be thinking a lot with that." The smaller man throws back, pointing at the discarded datapad, before stepping forward. "What's going on, man? Is it Reeds?"

Will stiffens, and knows that his reaction is more than enough answer.

None of them speak for some time, Jack patiently waiting for him to explain as he leans against the table with his blue-gray eyes lost somewhere as he draws mental blueprints while fiddling with his unruly mouse-brown mustache, and Will glaring at the table's surface as if the answers to all his questions would appear engraved on it any second.

The door opens but the sound of steps doesn't stop, which is more than enough to know who the newcomer is without having him stop on the taller man's other side, a pile of neatly stacked pads left on the table before a hand falls on his shoulder.

"Reeds again?"

Will sighs in tiredness, yet some of his fear and pain must have showed, because Jack's hand mirrors Percy's on his other shoulder.

Instead of answering, he looks up into their eyes.

Whatever calculations were running through the brown-haired scientist's mind are gone, only worry and the ever present curiosity in them.

Glasses reflect the light but don't hide Percival Thorn's black eyes, nor does his perfectly combed back black hair, but, even if they did, there wouldn't be much to see, his features schooled into a blank mask as they usually are as he awaits for an explanation to which react.

Looking down again at the table, Will clenches his hands into fists.

"My visiting request has been denied." He doesn't see it, but he feels his friends stiffening through the hands clenching his shoulders. "And I have no explanation as to why."

"That's… not good. How about a video-call?" Jack asks tentatively, and he shakes his head to let them know the answer's the same.

"Do you know if there have been any attacks lately?" Percy tries, sounding calmer, as he squeezes his shoulder. "Perhaps it isn't something as… harsh. It could be something minor, an illness maybe."

"I don't know. I know _nothing_. They won't tell." His voice is almost a whine, and he knows the other two are exchanging a look over his head.

"Maybe we could, uh, ask someone?" Both Percy and Will give Jack incredulous looks, but the man only grins. "Come on, the soldier on desk duty may know, right? Or we could ask Dexter, the guy seems to know everything."

Before he knows it, the platinum blond is on his feet and walking with long strides to the door.

"Of course! How could I have been so stupid!" He grumbles under his breath, the other two hurrying to stay at his sides.

"Easy, man! Where are you going?"

"Dexter! Dexter is Sanders' brother, and Sanders is Steve's friend. He _must known_ what's going on." He answers with a big smile as he turns a corner—

"Do you even know how to get to the Communications Center?"

—and stops right in his tracks, Jack slamming against his back with a muted 'oof'.

Sheepishly, he turns around to look at an amused yet exasperated Percy, who has stopped a bit behind them, arms crossed against his chest.

"Huh, do you?" He asks softly, and the brown-haired scientist snickers, a hand ruffling his already ruffled hair.

"He doesn't, but _I_ do. And, before you ask, I'll be glad to show you the way. Have a couple of things to ask of good ol' Dexter." Blue-gray eyes twinkle with amusement as he states that.

With a good luck wish and a wave from Percy, the other two scientists go on their way, far calmer than before, as the black-haired man returns to the lab.

"Didn't know you know Dexter." Jack comments curiously, and the taller man chuckles softly.

"I met him after the _Nemesis_' lock-down, when I went to visit Steve. He was there to see his brother and we kind of ended up talking for a bit."

"Meaning, the officers went to talk about their things and you ended up with only each other." He has to laugh at that, because it's fairly accurate, and Jack smiles widely, knowing he has nailed it.

"In a way, yes. We've met every now and then at the cafe downstairs since then, but I have to admit I hadn't thought of asking him about what's going on in the Military Force before you suggested it. How do _you_ know him, anyway?"

"_Everybody_ knows Dexter. He's a social butterfly, and the one behind the CGR."

"The Civilian Government Radio? The comm frequency that has music blasting all day?" He exclaims, incredulous, remembering all the times he's had to get Jack's attention via a tap on the shoulder because of him always wearing headphones when working. "And the Commander _lets him_?"

"It's good for morale. Besides, the music's good." The smaller scientist answers happily, and he can't help but shake his head at that. "How many times have I told you to give it a try?"

"And how many others have I said I work better if I can hear myself think?"

They both laugh at that, the ongoing joke having gained a new edge with that small discovery.

"Well, _you_ tell Dexter you're not following his CGR. Poor kid will be heartbroken. Anyway, here we are."

The door opens, and Will hasn't said anything yet but Dexter is already heartbroken, hunched over his workstation with big headphones hanging around his neck and his head in his hands in a mimicry of the taller man's previous position down at the lab.

The first thought his stunned mind is capable of producing is 'Not good'.

With a couple of big strides, he's kneeling next to the cherry-blond's chair, a big hand on his knee and worry almost oozing off of him.

Honey-brown eyes fill with pain when they meet his ice blue ones, and his heart clenches.

"They didn't tell you, did they?" The smaller man asks softly, even though there's not much of a question in his voice.

He can only shake his head in denial, and Dexter's eyes close.

"Minor brain hemorrhaging."

If there's something said after that, Will doesn't hear it.

"But—he was better—he'd been cleared—"

"No rest for the weary." That humorless smile tells him more than anything else, and he feels himself pale.

"Your brother too?" He whispers, and there's only a small nod as answer.

It's more than enough.

They stay silent for a bit, none of them knowing what to say, before Dexter almost jumps out of his seat with a startled look on his face.

Confused, they watch him put a hand on a pocket to withdraw a phone, hope filling his eyes as he presses a button while signaling for him and Jack to be quiet.

"Doctor Shepherd?" The cherry-blond man asks softly, and there's a huff from the other side of the line, the call put on speaker for what he knows now is his sake.

"_Just Shepherd, Dexter. I've got good news for you._"

"Is he alright?"

"_He's annoying, that's what he is. First thing he does when he wakes up is try to walk away. And they call _me_ workaholic!_" The Communications Officer can only laugh loudly in relief and happiness at those words, and Will feels himself smile at the sight.

"Have I told you how much I love you, Hatchet?"

"_And have I told you how much I hate that nickname?!_"

"Lots of times. Hey! How's Reeds?"

There's silence for a second, and both their smiles waver.

"_Since when are you interested in the Air Commander?_" Relief fills them at the curiosity in that question, no sign of anything that may foretell an answer they would not like.

"Since I have a friend of his here with me all worried 'cause he has no idea why his visiting request has been denied." Will blinks at that, surprised, but Dexter just winks in a way he knows is his 'Communications Officers know everything' explanation.

"_Should have known. He's fine too, awake and coherent, and getting better. And with that accursed Grant attached to him like a gum to a shoe. Those pilots are getting crazier every day. Would you believe me if I tell you he's been singing _for two hours straight_? And the Air Commander and that brother of yours just sit there and suggests songs!_" The three of them laugh loudly at that, Jack because it sounds amusing, and Will and Dexter because they _can_ imagine it. "_I swear it's all a plot to have me kick them out of Med Bay. Well, you tell them, I'm not letting them go until _I_ say so, even if it means I have to drug them into unconsciousness!_"

"How about suggesting songs back?" The smaller scientist pipes in, earning another rant that sends them all into laughter.

Sitting on the floor, unable to meet his friend or even talk with him, Will feels lighter and at ease, because he knows he will have the chance.

And because he's laughing too hard to even think about worrying.

* * *

Jazz is looking out of the window, but he doesn't see further than his faint reflection.

His black eyes are mocking him.

Just like Fowler's green ones do.

What is weighing him down, though, isn't colors, but words.

The words filling the reports on the desk, the words _Commander-in-Chief_ _Fowler_ of the nameplate on the outside of the door, the words he told when he came in this morning.

_"Boss__ called to say he had a bad migraine and wouldn't be coming today, so I'm in charge. Don't bring too many reports!"_

All cheeriness vanished as soon as he closed the door behind him.

Lies, all of them.

Even those that are true.

He didn't want to leave Prowl, not as he'd been when he woke up.

He looked so peaceful, so relaxed, as he slept… And yet, when he barged out of the bedroom he was almost as hysterical as that first morning after his breakdown, clinging to Jazz and bringing them both to their knees as he muttered desperately.

_"__My name, what is my name, please, what is my name, tell me my name—"_

_"__Prowl. Your name's Prowl."_

_"__My name—"_

_"__Prowl! It's Prowl, now calm down!"_

_"_… ___Prowl?"_

_"__Yes, Prowl."_

_"__But…"_

_"__It's Ron Fowler too, but that is not—"_

_"__No, no, that's not my name, my name is—my name is—"_

_"__Prowl."_

_"__But they called me Prowl too…"_

_"__They?"_

_"__The others, the ones in… in the other place, in the _right_ place… But the name was wrong…"_

_"__What do you mean?"_

_"__The place felt _right_… but when they called me 'Prowl'… it felt _wrong_."_

The Commander-in-Chief managed to work himself into a migraine before breakfast was even ready, and, since they couldn't both stay away from the Enforcers, Jazz left him sleeping in his bed and came to work.

He hates himself more every second.

He shouldn't have left him alone.

He should have some idea about what this 'right' place is, and why the 'right' name is 'wrong'.

He should talk with Starscream and Soundwave, but that isn't an option.

He should find out if someone is after them, and why, despite his suspicions.

But how can he?

With a harsh huff, he rubs his forehead almost too forcefully, trying to push his growing headache away.

The Military Officers are out of commission, Prowl is suffering an identity crisis and Jazz has come to the end of the road with no way to continue in sight.

And a possible fifth to their team was lost before they even knew it. How many more have just vanished without them knowing, how many more are out there with no idea how wrong the world is?

What can they do for them?

He goes back to the chair and falls down on it, not caring that he's on one of the visitors' ones instead of the big and comfy-looking one behind the desk.

That's Prowl's chair. He's _not_ sitting in it.

He turns to the paperwork, trying to get some work done, but the words blur in front of his eyes the more he tries to make sense of them.

The knock on the door is almost a blessing, and he quickly grants permission to enter.

"Hey, Jazz! I'm bringing the—are you alright? You don't look alright." He has to smile despite himself, letting the hand massaging his temples fall to his side as he looks up at a worried-looking Drew Phillips.

"Nah, I'm fine. Just annoyed I have to do Fowler's job when I could be chatting with you guys." He answers easily, his smile turning to an exaggerated pout.

"Well, you can always bring the job outside and chat with us while working, you know." The boyish young man shots back, putting some more pads on the desk. "We miss you too, to say the truth. It's too quiet out there without you messing with the radio, or the comm system." They both chuckle at the memory, even the lecture they had to endure afterward.

"Yeah, that one was good. But, I can't do that when I'm the boss-man, now can I?"

"Sure can, just don't let them catch you." He lets out a bark of laughter at that, rising and reaching to clap the younger Enforcer on the back—

_"D__on't let them catch you."_

_"__Please, do you know who are you talking to?"_

—and finding his arm being clasped and a firm hold on his waist as he's slowly lowered to the chair he was occupying, an almost hysterical Phillips babbling his heart out as he tries to find out how he's feeling.

"—and you're really pale and that's bad—worse even, because your skin's so dark I shouldn't even know when you're pale, should I?—and I don't have the number of any doctor, but perhaps someone outside does, but I need to know if I need to call one instead of—"

"Drew." The younger man shuts up so fast that he can still hear words in his head—

But are they Phillips'?

"Jazz?" The meek, almost too soft to be heard voice brings him back, this time without echoes that may not be echoes, and he forces a reassuring smile on his face.

"I'm fine, kid. Just lack of sugar, I guess. Didn't eat as much as usual for breakfast." He answers easily, part true and part lie.

He hadn't eaten too much, yet he _knows_ that's not the reason for his blacking out.

But Drew doesn't need to know, so he just smiles and agrees to go with the kid to get something to eat, and follows and chats easily, though mostly listens to the almost non-stop babbling.

On the outside, he's looking over the assortment of pastries of the bakery while listening to the younger Enforcer's suggestions.

On the inside, he's trying to find out whose voice was it that he heard in the office.

And why the whole thing feels like 'famous last words'.

* * *

**AN:** Early update 'cause I've had a bad Friday, but I got a review to cheer me up.

As some of you may have noticed, I changed the Cover Image. The previous one was an ancient thing that was completely unrelated to the story. The new one, despite the clipped wings, is how I see the Tetrajets from this fic. It's based on Bay-verse Soundwave's satellite form (_Rise of the Fallen_) and a UAV Predator Drone, which, not-so-ironically, is Prime-verse Soundwave's alt mode. Cheers for the awesomeness of the Transformers franchise and Soundwave!

Here's the full image (minus spaces and brackets): ezimba (.com) / work / 140505C / ezimba15531451970601 . jpg

Also, I'm not sure if I'm satisfied with it, but this is supposed to be the world with the Black Plague, plus a Protectodome (base image from _The Dome_, the series): ezimba (.com) / work / 140510C / ezimba15531426240901 . png

GEEK ALERT: Tetrajet workings:

For those who have the question mark alight over their heads: Yes, Cybertronian, which includes Tetrajets, are black. The glowy blue circles on wings and tail are sensors, for the _Nemesis_ to keep them in sight, and are turned off the instant they enter the Protectodome, thus look black, and are consequently undistinguishable from the fuselage when the Tetrajet finally docks. Also, remember the Black Plague covers everything in a black tar-like substance, which means they aren't physically visible outside the Protectodome, so they aren't beacons for the Black Beasts.

As you can see, the wings are divided in two parts: the front ones are the real wings, while the back ones are cannons with rotatory capabilities. They are usually behind the wings when not in use to reduce the drag, as shown in the image, and are 'pointed forward' to shoot, so they look like they are attached to the underside of the wings, like missiles in our jets are, or on the upper part, depending on the pilot and the situation. And the handle-like thingies behind them are where the Protectodome and the docks 'grab' the Tetrajets, 'cause they have no landing gear.

As for the functionality of the crafts... The 'thrusters' aren't there per se, since the tail is/has the propulsion engines, but there aren't thrusters. This new engine allows for vertical take off (remember, no landing gear), as well as backwards flight, which isn't something widely used because, usually, there's no time to, nor enough ability, though it helps in stopping short to quickly change direction in an almost perfect 90º angle. To do so, as well as increase/decrease speed, the tailfins (the longer parts on the sides of the glowing orbs) 'fan open/closed' or move up/down/sideways, and not necessarily together.

The Tetrajet's maneuverability, including simple turns, are all the work of the wings. Those are attached to the body of the craft by a thin connection that works exactly like a joint, with the same rotating capabilities of our cranium in relation to the neck: it can bend and rotate in almost all directions and angles. That allows them to 'fold' when entering the Protectodome, so the Tetrajet doesn't occupy a lot of space when docked.

If you take a look at the 'front' of the wings, you'll see some 'fingers'. Those work like a bird's feathers, those smaller ones that may look like a thumb in some species, which means that they help the craft glide, mostly. And the flap-thingies framing the main body of the wing are really flaps, so no worries there.

END OF GEEK ALERT

I've got a couple more of these 'Geek Notes' on the next two, maybe three, chapters, though those are about Transformer anatomy, and there's one of which I just CAN'T take from the AN, so, sorry to those who have no interest on these things. You'll just have to scroll through them.

I've got a question: Do you know any 'Transformer Anatomy 101', or similar, fics? I think the idea of putting all these 'Geek Notes' together into my own is starting to become too much of a plot bunny to ignore (it has pleading bunny eyes now, and it's becoming difficult not to look into them), but I would like to make sure not to step on anyone's toes... Especially because my idea would be to make the fic, if I ended up making it, of the dynamic variety, meaning writing about situations where this things got explained or were explained by some of the characters (I remember a good Megaman X fic like that, but I don't know about any Transformers ones).

Well, thanks in advance, and let me know what you think about the 'Geek Notes'. Should I take the non-essential ones off, or do you not mind them?

**Angel Heart:** I think I'm going to start collecting your reviews :D About the first part of it... I can't say anything about it, because anything I say will be spoiler-ish. So, sorry for this, on to the second part: Prowl and Jazz. I've said it before and I know you know it, but, to me, they aren't a pairing in this story. BUT that isn't to say I mind if people want to take it as if they are, which brings me to thanking you once more for your opinion, as I'm glad it looks good from whatever angle the readers want to look at it :) Also, I share your HC when it comes to Prowl, so I'm glad it showed at the end.

On the second review: Keep thinking! :D I love when people let me know their thoughts, though I'm afraid I'm going to be able to reply to less as things progress further... I'm tying myself up in my own plot-lines XP

**Seeker Angel:** Same review-response as before, so I'm glad you don't mind this method :) No worries about the account, I just thought it a really strange coincidence to receive an anonymous review and a Favourite Alert from people with the same username XD Thanks for reviewing and reading! It's people like you who make me glad I posted this, and convince me to keep doing it.

And about the last review, I'm glad you like it, and here's some more to keep you entertained for one more week! Starscream's one of my favourite ones, too, but I'm not going to do him any favors because of that, mostly because he shares the spotlight with three more of my favorite characters XD About your question... I can take it two ways: whether Starscream and Soundwave were physically together during the 'memories' or whether they were together as in couple together. I think I know which one you mean, but since the chapter was like it was... If it is the first: Can't answer. If it is the second: I've said it before and I'm sure I'm going to have to say it again, but, though I don't mind readers thinking of the characters' relationship as a romantic one, it isn't, I'm not going to write romance, only bromance. So, take it as you want, I won't mind either way :)


	9. Broken

His head is ringing, but he still manages to recognize the man crouching on the other side of the room, where he has tossed him.

"Jazz?"

Black eyes are wide open, breathing harsh, body tense, but the Head of Special Operations doesn't try to attack him again.

Which is fortunate, because, despite the pain becoming duller, it's still sending sharp stabs at the back of his brain, where his head collided with the wall at the unexpected tackle as soon as he entered the apartment.

"Boss?" The voice is thin, filled with worry and pain and suspicion, and he has to frown at that.

And yet, at the lack of hostile gestures, he bends down carefully to retrieve the items that the attack has forced out of his arms.

"Yes. Now, would you calm down?" He answers, frowning a bit, and, slowly, the other man obeys.

Yet, the suspicion is still there, along a hint of fear.

Once he has recovered everything, he walks into the kitchen without another thought, letting the other tag along like a lost puppy who is not sure whether the man is or not his owner.

Something dark nags nastily in his chest at the thought.

"You're early." He feels Jazz tense at his back at his statement, putting everything on the table and forcing himself to stay calm.

The Head of Special Operations is a weapon. Show weakness, and it will be exploited. Show fear, and he'll be merciless.

He should be trusted, but he has already attacked him, so…

"What are you…"

"I'm making dinner." He answers as the still weak voice dies down, rummaging a bit through the cupboards for the items he needs.

"Sorry."

And there it is.

"What for?"

"I… didn't know who you were."

His hands get wet as the pot they're holding overfills when he doesn't close the faucet, but he can't move.

Jazz didn't—

In an act born more from desperation than the annoyance he should be feeling, he lets the pot fall in the sink and whirls around so fast that the Civilian Third can't escape the wet hands gripping his arms.

Startled and alarmed black eyes are too wide, too vulnerable, as he looks into them, the coldness in his chest increasing almost painfully.

"I'm Prowl, Jazz, I'm _Prowl_."

All fear and worry are replaced by relief and happiness, and he finds himself in an embrace almost as fast, returning the gesture earnestly.

"Thank Primus for that… You had me worried, mech." He chuckles along Jazz, releasing him after a second. "You managed to make sense of the mess from this morning, then?"

"I… not really." He answers sincerely, going to the sink to turn off the faucet. "I'm just as confused as before but… Even if when they called me Prowl it felt wrong, it doesn't when you do. Or Starscream and Soundwave. How are they, by the way?"

Jazz smiles before going out of the kitchen, the look in his eyes mocking him with his lack of answer, but telling enough so that he doesn't worry.

When he comes back, he's wearing a dry shirt and sweatpants, looking as cheerful and calm as usual.

"Got a call from Shepherd that they're both up and about, but that he's keeping them a couple more days just in case. None of them remember what happened, but he says it's to be expected and not to worry about it." He sits down in front of the Civilian Third once he has everything going, handing him a can of soda while nursing his own.

"That's good. Have you talked with them?"

"Are you kidding? I was busy enough making sure you don't have a reason to chew me out when you get to your office tomorrow." He snorts softly at that, smirking, but turns serious when Jazz's gaze grows distant and his own cheeriness vanishes.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm… not sure." His voice is small and slightly scared once more, so he reaches over the table to clasp a hand reassuringly. "I mean, everything's alright now. But… I got dizzy back at Headquarters." A chill runs down his spine at the darkness in his fellow Enforcer's black eyes, and he squeezes the hand to reassure them both of their presence. "Heard… someone saying something, and myself answering… but there was only Phillips with me." Jazz looks away, gripping his hand and trembling softly. "Is this what you felt? What they felt?"

The silence that fills the room is ominous, and he can almost feel like something's analyzing them, studying them.

So, he stands up and goes to tend to dinner as if whatever they have been discussing is nothing.

Jazz just takes another gulp from his soda before starting to talk about his day.

The feeling of being observed doesn't vanish until late into the night, and, by then, they're too exhausted to do anything but curl closer and fall asleep.

* * *

When they are let out of Med Bay, Soundwave is assaulted by his children.

All five of them.

In a tackling hug that sends him into Grant and Reeds, and the lot of them to the ground.

At least, the only one shouting is Shepherd.

The Third Wing is laughing his ass off after the brief bout of panic before the Air Commander reassured him that he's fine.

Starscream laughs too, until the kids turn to him.

Then, the ones laughing are Grant and Soundwave, though the latter silently enough that only the smirk and the shaking of his shoulders give him away.

The little stunt keeps them in Med Bay for ten more minutes as Shepherd gives them a quick examination to make sure nothing has been jostled by the fall, or that the Air Commander's broken limbs have not received a bad hit, but, after a lecture from the CMO, they all walk away with smiles on their faces.

They spend the rest of the day in the rec room, despite Grant and the twins having to go away for their shifts, just chatting with the other three.

When Ralph goes away to get some work done, they decide it's late enough to go to their rooms and follow Shepherd's rest order—

And the proximity alarms go off.

Lizzie and Buzz run away with worry and slight excitement while the two officers make their way to the bridge.

Commander Storm receives them with a second of open surprise before pointing them to the side.

They're not cleared for duty yet, so they can just watch.

And worry, when two certain Tetrajets appear onscreen.

"You cleared him?!"

But he knows, as soon as the words exit his lips, that Starscream has _not_ cleared Ralph for active fighting.

The dreadful and uncomprehending expression on the Air Commander's face only becomes sharper when they see the twins' ID on two of the Cybertronian following the four Tetrajets already engaging the two aerial Black Beasts as five ground units approach.

"We can't let sentimentalism get in the way, Sanders!" Supreme Commander Storm shouts over his shoulder, giving him a silencing glare before returning to directing his troops.

His heart rate speeds up.

Sentimentalism.

How can it not be when his children, his little boys, are out there?

"They'll be fine." Starscream whispers, a hand curling around his own and squeezing, and he clings to it almost painfully, unable to look away from the screen.

Two of their own, one aerial and one grounder, have been lost when his breathing hitches in his throat.

One of the Point Heavy Black Beasts, the strongest and heaviest armored type they've registered to date, goes after Allan.

The voices echoing through the comm have been boasts and cheers as the number of enemies has gone down, but it all changes in an instant.

::Damn it all, this one won't die!:: Allan shouts, a hint of desperation under the annoyance, as his Cybertronian slowly goes away from the approaching red dot. ::A bit of help?!::

::On it, bro!::

And there Freddy is, rushing through the screen in sharp turns to avoid whatever obstacles his scans can detect, and Soundwave can't help but take a new breath, knowing from their simulator practice that together they can take down a Point Heavy—

"Sanders-F, back to your position!" Storm shouts, and a quick glance shows a Black Beast approaching the Protectodome from the area his child is supposed to be guarding.

::But there's no one to help my brother!::

"There will be if he does his job!" Three more Cybertronian exit the Protectodome, but they are still too far from both the incoming red dot and Allan, and the Point Heavy is closing in—

::I'm going in, go back to your post!:: Grant orders, his Tetrajet turning after getting rid of the last Aerial.

"Incoming!"

And the deputy-Air Commander cuts his maneuver short as two Runners appear onscreen, approaching quickly, and Freddy is already turning away, and Allan—

Allan has managed to buy himself enough time that the reinforcements have arrived, and the approaching Black Beast that had gone through Freddy's post has already been dealt with.

Soundwave lets out a shaking breath, the grip he's been keeping on Starscream's hand loosening a bit and earning himself a comforting squeeze.

::Hey, what the Hell is—::

One of the Runners goes past Freddy, and his signal blinks out.

"_Frenzy_!" His chest is burning, his heart splits in two, arms are holding him back from throwing himself at the screen, and his legs are barely supporting his weight, but it doesn't matter, _nothing_ matters because _his child is gone_.

He doesn't know what's drowning his cries, the pain in the depths of his soul or the lack of air.

::Brother?!:: Allan's terrified voice takes his attention away from the part of empty screen to where one blue dot is still trying to stay out of range of a red one, another blue blinking off as a second red joins the first. ::What happened to—Since when can Black Beasts do—?!::

The Point Heavy creature stalking his son _moves_, too sudden and fast for a Point Heavy, and the blue dot is sent skidding away as they collide, its light flickering dangerously.

"Rumble!" His already abused chest heats higher, burning so hot that he's sure he should be ablaze, but the signal is still online. "_Rumble_!"

::Dad—hurts, it—please I—:: He cries out again as the flickering intensifies, the blueprint next to his creation's ID more red than blue. ::—need help—:: The Point Heavy that had attacked him stops next to the damaged Cybertronian, and he can feel a surge of panic go through his body at both the sight and the sob through the comm. ::—sorry—Creator I'm scared—::

The signal goes out.

His scream is silent as he falls to his knees, an emptiness so cold it burns searing his chest, his heart, his lungs, and he's going to die, the agony is too much—

"—need you, Soundwave. I'm here, I'm never leaving you—"

Starscream pulls him to his chest, enveloping him in warmth and anchoring him with the pulsing of his heart and the strength of his will and the sincere reassurances blanketing his mind gone half-mad by pain—

Fear stabs him and his head shots up to see Ralph's Tetrajet being pursued by an Aerial, and no, _not again, not my youngest—_

The red dot vanishes just before Grant's blue one shots through where it had been, and he takes in a deep breath that sounds a lot like a sob.

::This is the last time you mess with the kids, you monsters! As long as I'm here no one's—::

A new airborne Black Beast appears as the two remaining ground ones start to retreat, and immediately engages the Third Wing's.

Starscream, still embracing him, shudders almost violently, and he can hear his fear, his worry, and the same foreboding that's growing in him the longer he watches the dog fight.

The new Black Beast is returning all of Grant's moves, as if it knew them beforehand or could read his mind.

Following Storm's order, the deputy-Air Commander tries to fly back to the Cybertronian on the security perimeter—

And loses control as the Aerial slams into him.

The underbelly, housing the speed-boost technology, flashes red before the blue dot is _thrown back_ towards the two ground Black Beasts awaiting on the edge of their scans.

"Skywarp!" The Tetrajet blueprint turns red as the craft crashes, and the comm bursts with static for a couple of seconds as the Aerial approaches the fallen blue dot.

::We have to help!:: Soundwave stiffens at Ralph's voice, his signal coming from behind the rest of unmoving Cybertronian, but, despite his words, he doesn't move.

The Tetrajet is damaged, but engines and wings are still operational, so Grant should be able to fly back to the Protectodome if they manage to distract the Black Beasts surrounding him—

A small message appears next to the blueprint, and all hope dies.

_Cockpit breach._

The seal is broken. Grant is lost to the Black Plague.

::Screamer… TC says… take care…::

The blue dot vanishes and, a couple of seconds later, the remaining Black Beasts go away.

When Ralph's signal disappears into the Protectodome, Soundwave gets hastily to his feet and rushes to the docks.

He doesn't know how, but he knows which of the docking spots is Ralph's so he goes to it without a second of doubt.

The wait stretches into eternity, with Starscream appearing at his side during it and pulling him close so that he's leaning against his side, his shaking going down to shivering.

And then, the wall parts to let a small, new model, Tetrajet in, and the arm around his shoulders is the only thing keeping him from rushing to the still closed cockpit.

A rush of steam later, he's running up a concrete ramp to engulf his youngest in a smothering hug as soon as the small teenager stumbles out.

His child, his baby, is crying against his chest, trembling arms around his back, but safe, unharmed and _here_.

He doesn't resist when Starscream guides them out of the docks slowly and pushes them into the Communications Officer's room, where Lizzie and Buzz are already waiting.

He hugs them as tightly as he's done his youngest, pulling them into the hold he still keeps around Ralph, and lets himself be guided to the bed.

Primus knows how long after that, his brain clears enough to realize he's sitting against the wall, with his daughter and his now-oldest son curled at his sides and his baby, still clad in his flight uniform, on his lap, all of them fast asleep and with tear-trails on their faces.

A small movement out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention and, slowly, he looks at the man hunched forward in his chair, the arm free of the cast supporting his bowed head.

Hair ruffled, shorter on one side than the other, and bandages nowhere to be seen, Second in Command Steve Reeds looks up with eyes darker than their natural color nor lack of light could account for.

Angry red burn scars cover half his face and surround an undamaged eyeball, not so much deforming his face as marking it, but they are not the most clearly seen injuries.

The broken heart and the emptiness in his gaze are.

He has to wonder, for just a second, if he looks like that.

A small smile appears on the tanned face, a hint of humor and reassurance in it, answering his unvoiced question.

His lips twitch, as if trying to return the gesture, but they can't do more than that.

Nevertheless, he knows the message has been received.

The Air Commander gives him an almost imperceptible nod, so he relaxes against the wall and loses himself to sleep.

Starscream will watch over them.

* * *

The _Nemesis_' meeting room is full before they even step through the door, despite there being only two people inside.

It feels ice cold, too.

Nevertheless, August follows Lester inside, Jazz and Fowler at his back.

The Military Second and Third, already there, look at him, and the coldness increases.

They look horrible.

Sanders is standing by his chair, at attention, but his skin is too pale, his hair not so neatly combed, his uniform wrinkled, the distance between him and the Air Commander not as big as usual, and, despite his straightened back, he looks smaller somehow, bent almost to the breaking point.

Even his sunglasses seem darker, not reflecting the light as they should.

Reeds is leaning against the wall, broken arm crossed against his chest as easily as the unharmed one. His hair is shorter, a bit tousled, and his stance is tense, seemingly ready to react to a threat the Civilian Government Commander can't detect. There are burn scars peppering one side of his face, miraculously not affecting mouth nor eye.

His eyes are blazing, yet so empty that he can feel himself falling into an endless inferno just by looking at them.

So, barely suppressing a shudder, he looks away.

His two officers have frozen on the threshold, unreadable eyes and blank expressions returning those of their Military counterparts.

Lester sits down, and it's the cue for the rest to do the same.

It seems to take the SICs and TICs a real effort to look away from each other.

August can't help but think he's missed something.

"You know why you are all here, or at least you should." The Civilian Government Commander shakes the feeling away as the meeting beings, Commander Storm looking both calm and murderous. "The Black Beasts new-found… _intelligence_, is a major threat, increasing with each loss. The Military is losing people, _fast_, which means a new recruitment campaign." Prime grimaces, knowing it will fall to him and his Government to take care of it in a non-alarming way, but nods when Lester looks at him. "We'll have to update training sessions, as well as work on new strategies and counterattack plans. The Science Divisions, both of them, will have to help in new Cybertronian development."

"Ours can take care of alloys and power sources, while yours looks after schematics and weaponry." Fowler answers this time, taking notes, and the other three around him nod in acceptance of the proposition.

"How long ago was a thorough maintenance of the Protectodome's outer shield run?" Jazz asks, looking at Sanders, who turns to his own datapad.

"Eleven months and three days from now." The Communications Officer answers after a couple of seconds of searching. "Current circumstances won't allow for another to be run."

"But it should be our priority as soon as our numbers grow." The Supreme Commander muses out loud, and his TIC starts writing.

"Meanwhile, we should run it on the inner shields and substructure. Maybe reinforce the outer from within?" Reeds is shaking his head even before August finishes his proposition.

"It can be done, but outside maintenance needs to be taken care of too. It will be for naught to reinforce the outer shield from the inside if the outside is weak enough to break. Or not necessarily that. A misaligned plate can let the Black Plague in without us even realizing it until it's too late. Inside reinforcements would do no good to assure the integrity of the seams."

Lester nods as the Civilian Second and Military Third write things down.

"Better take care of what can be done from the inside while training goes on. Once the Military is up to par we'll run outside maintenance."

"Can't we ask _Iacon_ for reinforcements to do that?" The Head of Special Operations leans a bit forward to look at the two highest officers, and the other three follow the gesture.

"_Iacon_ wouldn't agree." Prime answers with a small grimace.

"Maintenance of the Protectodome is a lengthy process, and, as we are now, it would be to ask too much. We could try to request two or three of their pilots to oversee the process, but not the manpower to guard it. Besides, there wouldn't be enough space in our docks to keep their Cybertronian as well as ours, and we can't just lend them those we have, for they will be needed by my troops." The Supreme Commander explains and, as expected, he sees Sanders take a couple of notes, more likely suggestions. "And I have a big enough favor to ask, to be adding more to it." Everybody looks up at Storm, surprised, but the man just waves them off. "We should prioritize the Stealth Units, too."

If the room had been icy when they came in, now it's positively frozen solid.

Lester ignores the change easily, or perhaps he's strong enough to keep going with barely a second lost in the oppressiveness filling the room.

One way or another, August wishes he could do the same.

This is too much like when he asked Fowler for Jazz's services after that nearly fatal first outing, and if he has to never be in such a situation in what remains of his lifetime, it will be too soon.

"We need more information about the Black Beasts, we need to know _how_ a Point Heavy managed to move quick as a Runner, and how an Aerial was able to throw a Tetrajet away." Both Military Second and Third tense painfully at those words, and their Civilian counterparts look at them with expressions so blank that Prime shivers at whatever he's missing. "They knew our tactics and how to disable us. I _don't_ want it happening a second time." The Military officers nod firmly, with almost too much determination. "And I'll need competent pilots." His gaze strays to Jazz, and the Civilian Government Commander knows what's going to happen just before it does.

Only, instead of having Fowler straighten in his seat with a non-negotiable 'no', the reaction those words get is three times the expected.

Meaning that not only is the Commander-in-Chief on his feet, but Sanders and Reeds too.

August yelps as he jumps in his seat.

Lester presses himself so hard against the back of his seat that the chair stands on two legs, keeping the balance thanks to the iron grip the Supreme Commander has on the table.

"Guys, take it easy, okay? I'm really flattered, but I'm a big boy." The three burning gazes drilling into Storm turn to Jazz, who is lounging on his chair with a relaxed smile, like he was at a bar instead of in a Protectodome Governance meeting with three raging officers. "And I'm Spec Ops. I can help look for candidates with your data." Slowly, and calmer, they sit down, and the two highest ranking officers relax almost against their will.

And then, Commander Storm snarls.

"There was something else I meant to discuss with you." His gaze is directed at the Civilian Third at that last word, despite all of Prime's instincts shouting that messing with the guy who flares the other three's protective instincts to their maximum isn't a good idea. "I'll contact _Iacon_ for an officers transfer, and I'll need you to oversee the operation." Which is part of Jazz's job as Third in Command, so the rest of the room relaxes.

A bit.

"Officers transfer?" Reeds repeats with confusion and a hint of dread, and Lester _glares_ at him.

"I'm requesting a competent enough officer as my new Air Commander."

August can almost _see_ the world tilting away from the tanned man.

"You're _demoting_ me?!" He has to wince at the shrill scream, but manages to refrain from covering his ears.

Who knew Steve Reeds had it in himself to raise his voice to such highs?

"I'm putting you on leave, _medical leave_. Both of you." And it is Sanders' turn to gape like a fish, tensing at the words that have his fellow officer trembling with searing rage. "Neither of you are fit for duty anymore, so you are to get out of the _Nemesis_ and come back only for your appointments with Shepherd. When his psych evaluations come clear, you'll be recalled, and not a second sooner. I'm also putting your brats on leave, same reasons, same conditions. Once this meeting is over, I suggest you go get your things, the official order will be by not too much later."

"But… where am I going to go?" Reeds voice is so small and pitiful that the Civilian Government Commander winces as if struck, the man's already empty dark eyes having lost their fire.

"Oh, how about with Sanders? Years of barely tolerating each other, and after ten days in quarantine you're best friends. So don't give me that pathetic excuse. Or, you could go to that scientist friend of yours. Use your brain!" Storm scowls, and the Air Commander seems about to snap, mood going from defeated and lost to defiant and raging faster than Prime can blink.

Sanders grabs his arm, and the Military Second deflates.

"If there isn't anything else…" None answer, so the Supreme Commander stands up. "Dismissed."

Faster than he would expect from a man with a broken leg, the two Military officers vanish through the door, with his own SIC and TIC closely following after giving him a nod.

The silence that falls on the room is almost ominous, like Storm's fists starting to shake at his sides.

And then, August understands, and puts a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Do you really think they will be safer away from here?"

Lester doesn't answer, glaring at the table as if it had all the answers and refused to share them.

"I don't know. But whatever has been going on with them has affected them more than we first thought. Shepherd's last report about their psychical states… it was too normal to be normal. After this…"

"This?"

"Two of the Sanders kids were lost, and Grant with them."

The Civilian Government Commander can only squeeze the shoulder under his hand.

"Never lose hope."

"What use is hope when your times ticks out?"

He has no answer to that.

* * *

**Updated** with new writing pattern to differentiate "Speech" / _"Memories" _/ ::Comm lines:: / "**Different language**"

**AN:** Alright, here's the unavoidable Geek Note, though it's not necessary for you to read it. It's here to explain/justify my take on an aspect of Cybertronian anatomy/culture that has come up in this chapter.

GEEK ALERT: Cybertronian 'reproduction' and relationship between Cassette-carrier and Cassette:

First of all, it's fine if you don't agree with my thoughts on this, but please, take into account that this is what I've used to develop the story.

Second, most of the first part of the HC comes from, or has been influenced by, **Bibliotecaria.D**.

Alright, there we go. In my HC, the Cybertronian/Transformer anatomy doesn't include human-like reproductive organs. Newsparks are born/created in one of two ways: through Vector Sigma or from another spark.

The first method is easy enough: Bring a Newspark Protoform to Vector Sigma and let it infuse it with a spark.

The Newspark Protoform is a plain one, only basic structural armor and variable engine without additions of any kind, so that the mech can become whatever the spark dictates instead of the protoform. That means the Newspark Protoform has some mobile parts that, when the spark first pulses in the spark chamber, remodel as much as they can into the given specifications. Ergo, a Seeker or Doorwinger will have plates extending from their backs, but a Seeker's pedes will arrange into thrusters, while a Doorwinger will have shoulders and ankles modeled into wheels/anti-gravs.

The opposite, meaning using a fully modified protoform instead of a Newspark one, can also be done, but the resulting mech always suffers problems, be it of incompatibility with some parts, processor glitches, or even the extinction of the spark once in the protoform (Silverbolt's fear of heights, the Stunticons' general craziness... need I say more?).

Newspark Protoforms are modified, once the spark has stabilized in the frame, by medics, who add the armor befitting the newspark's frame-type and monitor them to make sure everything 'grows' as it should. Cybertronian have nanites that, during the first orns (Cybertronian days) after being activated, modify the protoform into the final stage, connecting wires, changing the basic multitask engine according to frame-type parameters, and integrating the armor.

As for the second method, it is basically the same: put a newspark in a Newspark Protoform, let it integrate, and make sure a medic keeps an optic on them.

The way to get that newspark, though, can be via a spark capable of splitting without suffering for it, leaving a smaller spark with enough coding to use as a guideline to develop (kind of like a child can have some of their parents' personality quirks, but will be their own person), or it can happen when two sparks exchange coding and enough energy that it essentially creates a new spark. Either way, the spark will stay into the 'carrier' Cybertronian's spark chamber for some orns, between ten and twelve, to stabilize and charge, so that it doesn't just extinguish or doesn't have enough energy when it's transferred to the Newspark Protoform.

Also, since there's no gender in Cybertronians, 'mech' and 'femme' are just frame-types, with absolutely no relevance in newspark creation (that's why Laserbeak, who is referred as 'he' in the cartoon, is 'Lizzie' here).

About Cassette-carriers and Cassettes: The term 'Cassette-carrier' is the designation of a Cybertronian whose frame is able to carry Cassettes in their alt modes, their Cassette mode. It also doubles its meaning, since a Cassette-carrier is the spark carrier of their Cassettes. All Cassette-carriers have strong enough sparks to be able to create newsparks by splitting them, and their systems are created to sustain their Cassettes, although a Cassette can also be created through the union of two sparks or by Vector Sigma.

A Cassette-carrier will only carry their own Cassettes, NEVER another Cybertronian's or Vector Sigma created, because a Cassette's systems are compatible only with their carrier's, and vice versa. After all, it would be _really disturbing_, not to mention obviously dangerous, to have a Cassette not their own nestled next to their spark chamber.

Which is the main reason why my HC is that Cassettes are their carrier's creations. I can't even imagine carrying someone like _Ravage_ in my arms all day long, with just some skin and easily broken bone between my heart and the unknown Cassette, which is how I see the insides of the chest compartment in relation to the spark chamber, even if said Cassette was in recharge. How easy would it be for a Cassette to unfold once in the chest compartment, and how much damage would it mean to the carrier? I _don't want to know_.

END GEEK ALERT

**Angel Heart:** I'm so happy you understand the tangled situation I'm in now... I'm starting to feel like a kitten who has played too roughly with a ball of yarn XD And I'm glad you like the 'outside main-plot' interaction. Will just didn't want to be left out, and Percy and Jack wanted some screentime since Chapter 3, the buggers... Plus, I don't like to leave characters out, more so if they are also part of the action. They are people, too, and since the situation affects them they need to grow. I like to think I'm doing a good enough job with that.

I'm happy the sky-talk got that mention from you, I have been juggling that one for quite some time, trying to put the contrast between the 'Protectodome life' and the 'Transformers life', and how it affects them, Seekers in particular in this case. So, this time I'm happy it was Starscream who made that cheesy speech XD

Well, little recaps/summaries need to happen for the characters' own mental health, since they're in a big enough mess to need that way of sorting their thoughts from time to time, but I'm glad it helps readers too. To tell you the truth, that hadn't been my intention XP

I like those two as a pairing too, but I'm just unable to write them as such :P Plus, I really didn't want that kind of thing in that story. I'm happy to know you don't it mind it, anyway :)

And I'll look over all of the already published chapters, just in case. Since you said it's the last ones that need to be taken a look at, I'll start with number seven and work backwards. Thanks for letting me know! Also, I haven't yet modified the hallway scene from Chapter 4, I doesn't want to work with me T.T

Thanks for everything and read from you next week!


	10. Life Goes On

Will locks the door once inside the apartment, knowing they won't go anywhere in what remains of day.

He puts the keys on the table and doesn't look up from its surface.

He's hurting too much inside to face the other presence in the room.

Will always knew, even before that unlikely possibility came to pass.

Broken relationships are broken, no matter how much they are mended.

And yet, finding out that Steve has been forced into medical leave from not the man, but Sanders—_Dexter_ Sanders—is far more painful than he could have expected.

He's all too aware of each frayed end, of every edge of the pieces so bent out of shape that they don't touch anymore.

He hates himself for it.

Not for the state of their relationship, because that is both their faults, and shouldering the weight alone would be stupid.

He hates himself for his weakness.

Because his pain is bad, but he hasn't managed to look Steve in the eye since Dexter and him went to pick up the officers at the _Nemesis_.

The surviving children of the older Sanders threw themselves at their uncle as soon as they spotted him, barely holding back tears.

And when they let him go, the brothers embraced so tightly that it seemed they were the only beings in the world.

With them both shaking and hiding their faces against the neck and shoulders of the other, it was impossible to determine who was the one sobbing softly.

They said their goodbyes, grabbed the bags with their clothes, and started to get away.

Minus the Military Communications Officer.

Instead of going to the door, he went to Steve, who'd been watching the meeting like one would a small child near sharpened knives, his own bag resting at his feet.

The TIC slowly lifted a hand towards the non-scarred side of the Air Commander's face, but let it fall before it made contact, earning absolutely no reaction from the other man.

And then, he lifted the opposite hand and rested it on the burn scars without an instant of hesitation.

In answer, Steve splayed a hand as wide open as it could be on Sanders' chest.

Without breaking their stare, the SIC leaned forward to press their foreheads together, his free hand mirroring the other man's against the paler face while the Communications Officer's unoccupied one came to rest, also spread wide, on a red-covered shoulder-blade.

Will could only thank whoever was responsible for the meeting to happen in a private room.

The scene in front of him looked incredibly intimate, soft yet sharp at the same time, as whole conversations happened between the Military men through an unbroken stare and a couple of touches.

They separated in unison and Sanders went away with his family without a second glance or even a sound.

When they were alone, he looked back at Steve.

He didn't see the vigilant man that had been in the room when they came in, nor any of his friend's many faces, but soul-less eyes staring at the empty spaces where two other bodies should have been.

The scientist hadn't met the Air Commander's gaze since.

But now, in his apartment and with a broken pilot staring at the wall, Will forces himself to act.

The first thing he notices when he approaches the smaller man is that Steve's gaze isn't lost, but fixed on the projector sitting on the drawers.

It's a simple picture projector that, despite being capable of storing great amounts of data, houses only one image.

An old one, depicting two young and eager scientists barely fresh from the Academy, the tallest on his knees with the other leaning on his shoulder like one would a table, but both smiling brightly.

It had been the smallest of things, a new design for a little piece of the water filters, something they modified twice before Steve left for the Military, but it had been their first accomplishment, the first time they received a commendation from the _Ark_'s Government.

A coworker took the picture after they got the message and, despite having a more proper and official-looking one with Sebastien Prime, Will has always preferred the one before them, hence its placement.

"I could barely stay upright, so badly were my knees shaking. That's why I was leaning on you."

Will smiles at the small revelation, gaze never straying from the picture.

"It took me five long minutes to get on a chair." He reminds with a chuckle, but the smaller man looks sadder at that.

The time Will takes to gather the courage to ask what is wrong, the Air Commander uses to retrieve his bag.

"Will you be alright?" That's not the question he was about to ask, but he's glad it is the one that gets past his lips.

The last thing he wants is to remind Steve of the reason why he's in his apartment instead of the _Nemesis_.

"My brothers were killed before my very eyes and I couldn't do a thing to help." The scientist winces at the almost nonchalant words, taking a step closer when his friend takes a pad out and sits down heavily on the sofa. "I was the wingleader, the Air Commander, the Second in Command… and I couldn't do _anything_."

The pad is switched on, and Will sees the data in it are pictures.

The first one is the same in the picture projector.

Slowly, Steve goes through the others, ones the taller man has too, since they are of their years as Civilian scientists.

And then, the Air Commander stops.

The picture onscreen shows three men, two of which the blond doesn't recognize, yet he knows them all the same.

It's been taken from up and at an angle, so only the heads are showing, half of the image hidden behind the black-clad arm holding the camera.

Steve is scowling, pressed between the other two, as the one furthest, with short black hair, is in the middle of rolling his eyes, and the one at the front, with messy long hair and mischievous brown eyes, smiles widely, a hand on the blue-clad man's shoulder pressing the three of them together.

"He didn't even know our names."

"Excuse me?" He asks automatically, too taken in by the picture and the eyes seemingly staring at him to realize what has been said.

"When I got accepted in Air Force they assigned me a Wing. Sanders was the one who did it. He took me to a small meeting room, where we were supposed to meet with my wingmates, and Carter was already there. We had just stepped inside when Grant showed up, pushed us together and took the picture. And _then_, he asked Sanders if we were his new wingmates." Will moves from the back of the sofa to sit next to his friend, a smile appearing on his lips when he sees the one on the darker face. "They knew about each other, since they had been in the Military before I got there, but they didn't _know_ each other. Grant called Ted 'Baxter'." They both laugh softly, and if Steve's voice is raspier, he doesn't say anything.

The next picture is an official one, the three men wearing their colorful uniforms and serious faces.

But that is not what surprises Will.

"Why are you there?" His finger hovers barely over the screen, hiding the red-clad torso of the man standing on the left. "I thought the wingleader was supposed to be in the middle."

"I had just joined Air Force and both my wingmates were far more experienced, why should I be wingleader? Yes, I was good, that was why we were put in the same Wing, an _Elite_ Wing, but I was barely more than a baby according to Military standards." A bit of the sadness in Steve's smile is swept away by amusement, but it lasts only for a couple of seconds before he sobers. "We were sent on a routine patrol, guarding the repair drones for the scanners, to get used to each other. And we were attacked. My first time outside the Protectodome, my very first outing… Carter's wing was nicked, his maneuverability shot, and the Black Beasts fell on him like flies on rotten meat. He panicked. Grant was lost without guidance, confused as we all were by the attack… I don't remember much. They say it's normal, the battle high, they call it. But there's something I remember. I took charge. I ordered Carter to fall back, I guided Grant and the other Tetrajets on the offensive while Commander Storm arranged the ground-bound Cybertronian on the defense. I don't really know what I said, I don't know if I ever will, but… whatever it was, the first thing Commander Storm told me when we came back was that, from then on, I would be the leader of my Wing… and the Air Commander."

The next picture shows the blue and black-clad men laughing raucously with glasses filled with a suspiciously purple-tinted liquid on their raised hands and reddened cheeks, the image tilted and a dark finger showing on a corner.

Steve smiles again.

"As soon as I got out of my flight uniform, Grant appeared in my room and dragged me to his. I had a half-downed glass of High Grade in my hand before I even knew what happened."

"High Grade?" He repeats, curious, and, to his confusion, the Air Commander stiffens almost defensively.

"Alcoholic drink. Never asked what it is made of." And now Will knows why Steve has reacted so, because drinking is something the scientist frowns upon.

This time, though, he laughs.

A drunken Steve is something seldom seen, but always amusing. Even if it's just imagined.

"Before you even knew what happened? Do you expect me to believe that?" He snickers, receiving a dark glare that is an embarrassed and amused response, and his heart soars at the slow return of liveliness to the dark gaze.

"Grant will get you dancing shirtless on top of a table of the mess hall at dinner time, and you'll only notice when you realize your glass is empty and look for a refill." He sputters at that, laughter mixing with incredulous words.

"Talking from experience?" He manages to say, and Steve scowls and blushes softly, which is more than enough answer for Will, who finds himself without air as he breaks down laughing again.

"Just wait until you meet him, he'll get you…" All laughter and embarrassment and cheeriness is smothered faster than a flame in an oxygen-less glass bell.

He doesn't need to look into his friend's eyes to know they're empty again.

The tanned hand trembles softly as it moves towards the pad, which displays a main view of all the pictures saved in it with a simple order.

The touch is feather-like, but strong enough for the device to recognize it.

The three men on the screen are smiling, one a soft curve of pale lips, another a blinding grin that flashes teeth. Short black hair not restrained by meticulous brushing mixes with darker brown slightly tousled, and longer strands that have escaped from a louse ponytail frame a stubble-covered pale face.

Tanned arms around paler shoulders bring the three together, heads resting against the middle man's darker temples with an ease and warmth born of familiarity.

Three pair of eyes look into the scientist's own, and he knows that despite there being no blood shared, he's watching a family portrait.

As he cradles his broken friend against his side, trembling hands not letting go of the pad and tear-filled eyes never leaving those he'll never see again, Will wonders.

Wonders how it happened, how three became one and one went to nothing.

Wonders if he will manage to recover his friend.

Wonders if Steve Reeds will ever come back.

* * *

"So…"

Jazz leans against the console and says nothing else. Dexter stops his typing nevertheless, giving him a curious look before resuming his work.

"So?"

There's some beeping from a machine, signaling a call the Communications Officer must answer, but it isn't the reason the Enforcer stays silent.

Speaking things out loud makes them seem real, and the real world is becoming more hurtful the more they find out about it being… not fake, but _wrong_.

And they keep losing people. How are they supposed to find anything out _and_ solve it if every time they make a breakthrough something happens?

There's a tap against his arm and he almost jumps out of his armor.

He blinks down at the curious and slightly confused cherry-blond man, his mouth moving but what comes out of it is nothing but gibberish—

"—fine, Jazz?"

"Huh, yeah, sure. Just… thinking."

_What happened?_

Is he losing his mind? Did it happen to Prowl before his breakdown at Enforcer Headquarters? Will he suffer one too? Or will he start suffering physical problems, like the Military Officers?

There's no tapping on his arm this time, but the silence is even more attention-catching.

Dexter's looking up at him with worry, and he realizes he must have been asked something.

"Ah, sorry. What were you saying?"

"I said, you were pretty deep in thought. What's going on?"

His smile doesn't waver, his relaxed stance doesn't tense, but he's cursing loudly inside his head.

"Nothing, man. Just all this mess with the Military and the change of officers. It's making my job more difficult than it should." The other man's smile is equal parts understanding and sad, so he sobers before voicing the question that was first on his mind. "How's your bro taking things?"

Dexter looks down at the controls, seemingly playing a bit with them as his sad smile thins and, finally, vanishes.

"Not good. Better than the first day, but still not good. I… I don't know if…" He bites his lower lip and looks away, and Jazz knows he's not going to finish that thought.

He doesn't blame him. Said out loud, fears become more real.

"Have you thought about bringing him here? Familiar place and routine, family, friends…" The cherry-blond man is giving him a stunned look that quickly morphs into a pensive one. "Not right away, you know, but I kind of think he'd feel better being with you, and since you have to be here… If you talk with Shepherd, I can clear you with the Commander." The look he receives is almost worshiping.

It's familiar. And eerie.

It's so familiar it's eerie.

Kind of like a deja vu thing, but with all his instinctive alarms going off.

There's something important there, in the worshiping look the smaller man bestows upon—

_Stop, hold it, hit the brakes._

_Smaller_ man? Dexter's his height, why does he think he's—?

He's sitting down. And Jazz's standing.

_Oh._

So, something important about smaller people looking up at him like one would a God.

Or a kid a high ranked Enforcer like himself.

_Rust._

He actually yelps and jumps when he feels something warm fall on his arm, earning himself a bemused look from his companion, whose hand is still up, when he manages to turn to him again.

"The Pit, man? Give a mech a warning!"

"… Say what?" And Dexter is now analyzing him with an intensity that would make Shepherd proud, which is _not_ a good thing.

"Just… stressed. Tired. Didn't sleep well last night—" He hasn't finished the sentence, but Jazz knows it's the wrong thing to say even before the cherry-blond man jumps upright with worry clearly seen on his freckled face.

_Tell the guy whose brother has suffered brain hemorrhaging because of migraines and insomnia that you're not sleeping. Really _clever_._

"Dex, Dex, Dex!" He has to swat his hands away when they reach for his shoulders and arms, easily changing the odds to be him the one holding the other man. "Easy! Just meant that I've been working a bit too late, what with getting things ready for those guys from _Iacon_."

There's another beep, and the Communications Officer forces himself to calm down.

"Alright. Alright. But if you start to—"

"Have real trouble or feel bad, I'll go see a medic, I promise." Dexter presses his lips into a thin line, but nods and puts his headphones on again, already fiddling with the controls.

The Head of Special Operations gives him his signature grin and turns around to leave the room, but a hand around his arm stops him after only a couple of steps.

"—clearing you for docking, stand by." A look from the cherry-blond is enough to make the Enforcer turn around to wait, and the hand goes away to join the other dancing on the controls. "All clear. Captain Smith will meet you at the docks."

"Who am I—"

"Aaron Blake."

And that's all Jazz needs to wave a hand and rush out the door.

He feels the same uncomfortableness and wrongness as he gets into his hover car as he's been feeling lately, though his thoughts are not on it.

Aaron Blake is back.

The Transports Officer, whose last location was the _Iacon_ Protectodome, and who was tasked with the safe delivery of the resources both Commanders Prime and Storm requested.

Material _and_ human resources.

As the Civilian Third in Command, it is his duty to organize transportation between Protectodomes, and as thus it has to be him who greets the new Air Commander.

He's not eager for that, but he won't shirk his duties, nor let Blake go to his quarters without having to deal with the Jazzmeister for a bit.

His grin widens when he reaches Civilian Dock 1 to find that the newcomers have yet to come out.

The Protectodome's outer shield is, as the name implies, a shield. Defense. The inner shield, on the other hand, is the structure, the base the Protectodome stands on, in a way. But between them…

The decontamination area is more than the name implies. It is, of course, where crafts coming from the outside are rid of the Black Plague that inevitably coats them, but it also serves to relocate them to their appointed docking areas.

The Protectodome stands over the city. The _whole_ city, and the surrounding farming lands. There's even a mountainous area, which is a city sector the ground of which hasn't been levered, keeping instead the hills of the pre-Black Beasts' geography.

A Protectodome, _any_ Protectodome, is so big it's easy to forget you're under one.

Also, they're circular.

And, since the Black Beasts can approach from any angle, they need to be able to deploy the Cybertronian from any spot of the outer shield to counter them.

The _Nemesis_ lies against the inner shield, as much part of it as the inside and the inner area, but it doesn't stretch to all of the inner shield's circumference.

It isn't needed.

The _Nemesis_ houses the Military Cybertronian's docks, but once inside the decontamination area, a complex system, the workings of which are completely unknown to Jazz, moves the crafts through the inner area to the point they exit the outer shield.

Which is one of the reasons Protectodome maintenance is so important. If a part of the lower outer shield, completely made of carefully sealed gates that allow entrance and exit to the Cybertronian, gets damaged, it could mean not only inability to access those gates, but contamination of the inner area too.

And that last one would mean death, to both those inside and outside the Protectodome.

Jazz shakes those dark thoughts off the instant he sees a well known purple and white-clad giant of a man walk out of the door behind which are the docks for Civilian Cybertronian.

"Aaron Blake! Fancy meeting you here!" He chirps happily, approaching the sandy-haired man, who snorts when he sees him.

"Jazz Smith. They still keep you around?"

"They can't live without me." That earns him a hearty clap on the shoulder that forces him to stumble a couple of steps, but his smile never wavers.

"Cheeky bastard!" Blake laughs, clapping him softer before stepping back. "What a mess with the Military, huh? Sebastien Prime was pissed to know Commander Storm had asked replacements for his Second, Third, Air Commander _and_ Communications Officer. I swear, you could hear the shouting from the docks." The Enforcer lets his smile widen with a chuckle despite the clenching of his heart.

"But did he send them?"

"Sure did. In fact, we wouldn't be here without them. Those accursed Black Beasts tried to get us on the way here, and Commander Reeds' presence was about the only thing that let us—"

"Stop right there! Commander _Reeds_?"

Aaron gives him a confused look before his face brightens with realization.

"You mean they didn't tell you who—?"

"Air Commander Shawn Reeds." Jazz turns around sharply, quickly finding the owner of the new voice. "Pleasure to make your acquittance."

His hair is cropped and dark brown, his skin is tanned, and his smirk is almost screaming his mightier-than-thou complex to the whole docks.

If it wasn't for the lack of burn scars, the glaringly bright yellow flight uniform and the incredibly pale blue eyes, Jazz would have sworn he was in front of Steve Reeds.

"Yes, that's him, the Air Commander _Iacon_ has sent. And that is the Military Communications Officer, Raleigh Sanders."

"_Sanders_?" He squeaks, gaze snapping to the young man he hasn't noticed until now despite being by _Reeds_'_—_he shudders mentally at the name—side.

He wears a black dressing uniform jacket and silver pants, with a black and silver bag slung over one shoulder.

His skin and cropped hair are black, his expression is as empty as one can be, and he wears yellow-tinted glasses that make his pale eyes seem golden.

He looks nothing like John Sanders… except, he _does_.

The calm and serious demeanor, the straight posture, the detached and completely professional air.

A blink, and he doesn't see them.

He sees Sanders and Reeds, but…

He doesn't see Raleigh and Shawn.

He sees John and Steve.

And realizes that those who wear those names aren't them anymore.

They are Soundwave and Starscream.

Or should be, if they hadn't been broken by circumstances.

Reeds and Blake are talking, and Sanders is observing them calmly.

Jazz starts to tremble.

Replacements. Almost _perfect_ replacements for the men they were before realizing the truth, those who were efficient Military Officers with only a professional relationship between themselves and the Civilian ones, and that didn't snoop around in files they had nothing to do with.

Replacements that go so far as to wear their names.

Almost the same personalities, looks that, despite being different, are theirs too, and those names…

As he smiles politely and guides them to the exit, explaining about the _Ark_ Protectodome with the same ease and professionalism he exhibits for every newcomer of high enough rank to merit his guidance, Jazz can't help but think, ponder this new development, and reach an unpleasant conclusion.

He needs to talk with Prowl, and with Soundwave and Starscream if they are still themselves.

Deep within himself, Jazz has the feeling the mystery about the missing officers has just been solved.

He just needs to piece it together before a new Captain Smith becomes the Head of Special Operations.

* * *

**AN:** Hint for the interpretation of the 'intimate' scene between Starscream and Soundwave: Imagine them as their Transformers selves and read it again.

More characters! Remember: Named character = Cannon character (one of them is from his _Dreamwave_ comics' self, but it's not needed to have read them, since he's practically cannon with all the fannon he's gotten... In fact, I didn't know he wasn't G1 cartoon cannon until I watched the cartoon! XP).

I know this was requested long ago, but I needed to get the other two Geek Notes first, and two in the same chapter seemed too much...

GEEK ALERT: Headcanon on sparks and bonds:

Sparks are masses of energy that are usually believed to come from Primus himself. Vector Sigma supports that theory, since it is said that Primus' body formed the planet Cybertron, and that his spark is what keeps it alive. Since Vector Sigma is a connection to Cybertron's own core, Primus' alleged spark, and is able to create newsparks, the belief that sparks are parts of Primus' own is common knowledge among Cybertronian.

Sparks sustain themselves by burning Energon, a highly-charged and highly-energetic substance usually found in crystalline form, and that is commonly liquified to allow its consumption. It can also be created artificially from other less concentrated energy sources, like sunlight or oil.

The spark consumes only the purest and most energetic Energon, called High Grade, while the rest of the frame runs on the less charged, and thus less corrosive, Mid and Low Grade.

Sparks are spherical bodies of energy arranged in different layers. At the very center of the spark is the laser core, plasma so highly concentrated that it's in constant fusion reaction (not _nuclear _fusion reaction, a different one possible because of Energon). The laser core is where the Energon is consumed, and it has a codependent relationship with the other layers of the spark, in that it radiates the energy and gravity that sustains them, but is kept together and stable by their presence.

Surrounding it is the intermediate layer, also known as the data storage, a liquified mix of plasma and electricity always in constant movement and that is responsible for the stability of the laser core with its exchanging of energy between it and the halo. It's also where the Cybertronian's self originates from, since it contains the coding that determines the frame-type, personality and even the primary color scheme, all of which is copied to the processor when the spark is transferred to the Newspark Protoform. It keeps coding from past spark-merges, sometimes for mere breems (Cybertronian minutes), others for vorns (Cybertronian years) or even for the rest of the Cybertronian's life. It's believed it's able to also store memories, but such a theory hasn't been confirmed. It is the part of the Cybertronian with one of the higher, if not the highest, ability to adapt.

The outer layer of the spark is known as the halo, and it is completely composed of electricity. It is responsible for the laser core's state as plasma, and for keeping it together. It regulates energy output, be it the pulses from the laser core or the signals from the personality part of the intermediate layer, by modulating the charge so that it doesn't fry the Cybertronian's circuits, but allowing it to be strong enough to reach its destination and register. It also evaporates the High Grade Energon fed into the spark chamber by specialized Energon lines, and carries the highly charged molecules into the spark so they can reach the laser core, where they are 'consumed'.

Despite the name, in a spark-merge, the only part of the spark that takes part is the halo, and it doesn't really merge, but mix with the other spark's, exchanging energy and coding sent from the intermediate layer and laser core. If the amount of energy is sufficient, a newspark may form, and it will be pulled into the spark chamber of the 'carrier' spark, the one with the highest levels of energy, anchored by the halo.

A bond is an energy connection between sparks. As thus, that enables some sort of communication between the bonded, as well of knowledge about physical status, location and similar. This means a bond's 'functionality' is restricted to a certain range, since, the bigger the distance between bonded, the harder it is for the sparks to maintain the energy flow. Due to them being energy connections, bonds are regulated, sustained and established by the halo.

There are different bonds, according to their nature. The main ones are:

Familial bonds: Between twins, creator-creation and carrier-creation. They are formed when the sparks separate/are created, and allow status reports, emotional exchange and knowledge of the bonded's location. They can be nurtured to allow communication, too, though that usually happens only between twins, who have a higher compatibility, meaning the energy that forms the bond is more easily exchanged, due to them being a single spark that split in two. The carrier-creation bond is stronger than the creator-creation one because of the maturation time.

Fraternal bonds: Between creations sharing one or both creators, or between unrelated Cybertronian. These bonds don't occur naturally, since the sparks haven't been in contact to form the energy bridge that grows into a bond. Instead, those happen with interaction between the will-be-bonded. These bonds form slowly and, usually, without knowledge of the bonded until reaching a certain stage of their 'development'. They allow knowledge of the bonded's location and a certain degree of emotional exchange, as well as feeling extreme physical reactions. As with all bonds, they can be nurtured to grow stronger and enable further knowledge of the bonded's status.

Mate bonds: Between Cybertronian who have undergone spark-merge. This type of bond allows full knowledge of the bonded's status, physical and psychical, as well as emotional exchange, location knowledge and communication. As the other types, they can be nurtured to better communication, which is barely more than acute emotional exchange at first. There's a myth about the deactivation of a Cybertronian with a mate bond leading to the bonded's deactivation. This extreme case happens only when the bond is extremely developed, to the point the spark can't sustain itself without the energy received through the bond, though it can happen that the bonded deactivates due to their frame being unable to endure the pain reflected through the bond, in cases when the mate's deactivation is painful.

Trine bonds are a special type of fraternal bonds, unique to the Seeker frame-type. They are three-way bonds with emotion-based communication capabilities between the three members of the Trine, a social group characteristic of the Seeker frame-type.

Bonds can occur consciously, in spark-merges, unconsciously, like the familiar bonds, since they are simply a consequence of the newspark's creation, or accidentally. Accidental bonds are fraternal bonds, but not all fraternal bonds are accidental.

An accidental bond is the one that isn't the result of spark-to-spark contact, like familiar and mate bonds are. Bonds are established when the sparks' frequencies are well-known, whether by extremely close proximity of the implicated Cybertronian, like would be the case of best friends who spend a lot of time together, or by correlations between the sparks, which is when they are similar enough in one or other way, be it because of sharing coding from the same creators, or by the intermediate layers' energy pulses, something referred to as the sparks 'calling' to each other.

Bonds established by 'calling' sparks are so varied that it is unknown exactly how they operate, or the reason of their formation. Examples range from a Cybertronian saving another's life to a usual customer and the shopkeeper.

Two Cybertronian can only have one bond between them, meaning that a fraternal bond will become a mate one if they spark-merge, instead of developing the mate bond while still keeping the fraternal one. A mate bond can't be turned into any other, but enough of its capabilities can be blocked to act like another type.

Regardless of type, all bonds begin with the ability to sense the bonded, which can be used to locate them, and grow to enable emotional exchange, knowledge of physical and, later, psychical status and, at last, real communication. This last one is wordless, but it is said to be able to become word-capable if the bond is strong enough.

All bonds can be nurtured by proximity to the bonded, but especially by use. Bonds can be blocked, either completely or partially, but keeping them 'open' is more than enough to allow them to sustain themselves and, slowly, strengthen. If, in addition to being unblocked, a bond is made use of, whether with something as simple as locating the bonded or something more complex, like emotional exchange, the bond's strength will exponentially grow.

The stronger a bond, the easier it is to sustain it, even during long times of inactivity, or even during blockage of it, and more, and more clearly, can be felt through it.

On the other hand, all bonds weaken with distance, but, most importantly, with disuse. In the same amount of time, a bond that has been blocked will weaken ten times more than a bond that has become inactive due to distance.

When a bond weakens to a certain point, it will simply vanish, no longer acknowledging the bonded's spark nor sending energy to it.

The number of bonds a Cybertronian can establish depends on the spark, but they will grow weaker with each new one the spark forms, to the point well cared for mate bonds could grow to be like the weakest fraternal bonds.

An easy way to avoid accumulation of large number of bonds is to block those unwanted, which will automatically redirect the energy flow to the active ones, and increase the blocked bond's weakening rate.

The type of bond two Cybertronian share is, in no way, a reflection of how they feel about each other, since bonds are categorized according to their formation. The state and strength of the bond is the real indicator of the relationship between bonded. This means that two Cybertronian who hate each other may share a mate bond from a previous spark-merge, most likely completely blocked and, depending on how long it's been since its creation, almost gone. On the other hand, two others who are deeply in love may be united by a fraternal bond if they haven't spark-merged, but said bond may be as strong, or even more, than a normal mate bond.

END GEEK ALERT

Holy... that was a long one...

**Angel Heart:** Double review again! Yay! XD Now, on to things... Keep trying, I've read at least one good story where Prowl and Jazz have a SIC-TIC relationship only. Though... Prowl wasn't one of the main characters... Well, kinda, since all of the Autobot officers were a bit of main characters... Well. It's possible. I believe in you! :D

I hurt my own heart too, I didn't mean to kill the three of them, but the bunny said otherwise... Why?! T.T But, yes, I have everything under control ;)

Lester... is a hard guy to write. Every time I think I have him figured out, and try to make him do something... Well, you know how _this_ character is. I can never get him to collaborate ¬¬ But hey, he writes himself well enough, so I'm going to let him do his thing... Even if it means kicking two of his officers out of the _Nemesis_. I have to work with that, you plot-killer! *waves fist*

It makes me happy to know people understand what I'm writing! :D I'm going to follow your advice and leave that scene alone. I'm going to go back to check for typos and misleading spots, and see what I can do once I get that far back. I'll let you all know how that goes.

That... the chart... Would you believe me if that made my eyes teary? *sniff* As for plot... Well, you tell me after this chapter ;)

Thanks for everything and take care! (And don't worry about clicking the review button before time, it makes me laugh XD)


	11. A Date with the Past

Prowl's worried.

So worried, in fact, that he's been dealing with migraines almost non-stop for three days.

And Jazz, his best friend, his accomplice, his other half in both Enforcers and Civilian Government, his main _support_, is the cause of that worry.

Well, the most important one.

A morning, almost midday, of four days before, the dark-skinned man came into his office to deliver some reports before going away to continue whatever he was doing.

Amidst the reports' files was a small one called 'Surprise Birthday Party'.

Prowl's alarms started blaring. Loudly.

As calm and professional as always, he looked it over before deleting it.

He couldn't get to work on the reports after that, but, fortunately, he had a meeting with Civilian Government Commander Prime, so he didn't catch unwanted attention.

Two simple sentences tilted his world.

It seems to happen far too often, lately.

_Party delayed until further notice. Don't use the key._

There is no birthday party, only a talked about meeting between them if they managed to get Starscream and Soundwave.

And the only key he has that isn't his is the one to Jazz's apartment.

Things didn't get better the following days, with them both busy with their jobs and no explanation forthcoming.

So, when Prowl gets into the elevator of the Civilian Government building and is told to hold it for someone to rush inside in the nick of time, he feels annoyed.

When Jazz looks up from his slightly breathless hunched position to meet his eyes, he feels lucky.

They're alone, and headed for the same floor, for they have a meeting to attend to.

"I was hoping to discuss something with you, if you have the time." Which they both have, now that the elevator has begun to move, but since the Head of Special Operations tried to keep things hidden, he won't be as reckless as to talk about them out loud. "I was wondering about the reason behind the party's delay." He adds after the other has calmed down and nodded, straightening.

"There was a problem with the invitations." The Third in Command answers swiftly, smile in place. "Some of the them got lost, and we decided to wait until things had straightened before proceeding. So keep the key well guarded, 'kay? We wouldn't want anyone finding the presents, would we?"

Prowl shudders inside, brain almost boiling as he processes the meaning behind the cheery and innocent words.

The 'party' is no party, but a meeting, so those 'invited' would be the two of them, Starscream and Soundwave. If the invitations were 'lost', it would mean that, what? The two Military officers are not themselves anymore? Or is it because of their replacements, those bearing their names?

Judging by the 'presents' under the lock the 'key' of which he has, he suspects the latter.

The key is to Jazz's apartment, one of the few places where they can talk about the… not-rightfulness of their world and themselves safely, which would be the 'presents'.

He knows now that his suspicions about the connection between the replacements and the missing officers is shared by the TIC.

Until they know whether the situation they're in, injuries included, has been brought on them because of their knowledge, it's better to lay low.

He doesn't like it, but Prowl can do nothing but agree, so he nods in acceptance.

The elevator doors open and he turns all his attention to the meeting they are going to, feeling an incoming migraine start to recede before fully forming.

And if he has to fight back a smile or Jazz's is a bit wider as they walk side by side down the corridor… well, that is for them to think about.

* * *

August lets out a tired sigh as the door closes behind his officers, Fowler and Allen's voices cut short by the metallic barrier as they discuss the finest details of Storm's recruitment campaign.

He lets a soft chuckle escape through his lips as he stands up, stretching, and surveys the now empty room.

His Second and his Security Officer are more than able to deal with the situation, though he pities the other three men if they can't get away soon enough.

Those two usually agree over most topics, but when they don't…

He chuckles again, a bit louder, and grabs his powered down pad.

Percival Thorn, his Science Officer, will have his own trouble with the emphasis put on the Cybertronian-related research, having to delegate Civilian investigations to some of the teams under his responsibility while keeping his own from another of Jackson's… _explosive_ discoveries, all the while coordinating with the Military scientists.

Aaron Blake, Transports Officer, is to stay in the _Ark_ to help in the Protectodome's maintenance, his experience with a Cybertronian also enabling him to be an instructor for the Military and, if circumstances become dire, a pilot. Meanwhile, though, he has to work out a schedule and the routes to safely deliver the supplies _Iacon_ is willing to send to aid in the task.

Jazz Smith, Third in Command, is to help both Blake and Allen in their tasks, but, as Head of Special Operations, he has his own to run. Confirmed rumors and investigations show a small group having gained enough strength to poise trouble to the _Ark_'s Governance and, God forbid it, the Protectodome's own safety, its structure and people, so he has to put an end to it.

The Civilian Commander shakes his head at that, wondering, like all the times such a situation has come up, how is it possible that there are people willing to doom them all because of their unwillingness to negotiate, to _talk_.

_"There'll always be idiots as long as we're here to watch over them. When we're not, there'll be _dead_ idiots."_

August smiles at the memory, letting, for the first time in years, the sadness and nostalgia come to the forefront of his mind.

It's been so long since then, so long since the last time he saw and heard one of his oldest and best friends, that he is over the loss, but the current circumstances are enough to bring the old hurt back.

Damon Hyde would have known what to do.

He'd still been quite indecisive back then, just promoted to Second in Command, when he first met his Military counterpart, an old veteran who was more than trigger-happy when it came to dealing with Black Beasts, and as straightforward with everything else.

The meeting didn't go all that well due to their personalities, but it only took a couple more and Ryan getting them all to a cafe for friendship to grow.

And grow it did.

In one of his lowest moments, when a fungi plague made them lose their crops and half of their stored supplies, riots exploding in various areas of the Protectodome before _Iacon_ could send extra provisions and resistant seeds, Damon brought him aside and told him that thing about idiots, stating that the happenings were the exact reason why they had a Government in the first place, and why he shouldn't give in to fear and despair.

He was dumbstruck for some minutes before it sank in.

After the crisis was averted, he brought the older man to a bar and emptied his wallet buying celebratory drinks.

They ended up sleeping in Ryan's apartment and suffering through what has to be the worst hangover in history while being incessantly lectured by the doctor, but it was worth it.

And then, the Black Day happened.

Lester told him, when reconstruction was well underway, that it occurred because Damon was the first to fall, and chaos reigned without him on the field.

The Supreme Commander is the orchestra's director, guiding the whole of the musicians to get the most exquisite music possible, but the Field Commander, who also happened to be the Second in Command with Hyde and Reeds, is the knowledge necessary to read the scores.

The soldiers can fight without either of them, but they need to know what to do and be coordinated, something the Field and Supreme Commanders, respectively, provide.

Lester did his best to fight back without his Second, which was why they survived that day, but the damage was already done.

The Hall of Records. Forty percent of their population. A fifth of the inner shield. Damon Hyde.

It wasn't until long after everything had returned to normal, all repairs of the Protectodome's shields finished, that he broke down crying in his apartment and finally mourned his lost friend.

The next day, he was back to work fresher than before, heeding the dead man's advice to '_don't push away your feelings but don't throw a fucking pity party on the job, kiddo_'.

"Commander Prime!"

Startled out of his memories, it takes August a second to recognize the beaming young man, barely more than a teenager, approaching with a steaming cup in his hands.

When he does, though, he smiles warmly.

"Jerry, it's nice to see you. How are you?"

Jerry Lee, his personal assistant, smiles even brighter as he falls in step with him, offering him the cup filled with a greenish brown liquid.

"I'm fine, sir. I got all that paperwork sorted for you, so you don't have to spend thirty minutes searching for something." They both chuckle at the answer, remembering very well that time when the boy couldn't make it to work due to sickness. "I thought you'd enjoy some tea after the meeting, so I came to meet you. Can I have your pad in exchange?"

Still chuckling softly, the man takes the cup and hands over the datapad, eyes twinkling as he finally realizes what the beverage is.

"Liquid Honey from the Little Bee." He comments, taking a sip and trying not to chuckle into his drink as the boy gives him an adorable pout.

Because of the younger man's social nature, eagerness and diligence in his job, the Civilian Government staff have taken to calling him Little Bee, something the blond and blue-eyed boy with a fondness for yellow doesn't like all that much, more for the 'little' than the nickname per se.

And Jerry's special 'relaxing and invigorating' tea, the recipe of which is a family heirloom, has been dubbed 'Liquid Honey', though not only because of the 'Little Bee' joke, but due to the great amount of honey needed to sooth its sharp bitter taste.

Despite his unamused reaction, though, everybody knows, from Jerry's own words, that the young man enjoys his nickname, so August doesn't really feel more than amusement and a hint of fatherly love at the young man's pouting face.

One day, he promises himself, he will find his other half and start a family.

One day.

"Uh, by the way…" Being pulled out of his thoughts for the second time by the younger man, August looks down, taking another sip before lowering the still almost full cup. "John Sanders and Steve Reeds are in the building, with Dexter Sanders and William Daryl, respectively." Jerry informs him, and before he can answer a thought comes up.

"With Dexter Sanders and William Daryl, you said?" The boy nods, looking curious, and the Civilian Commander smiles. "Would you like to meet them?" Surprise makes the blond trip over his own foot, but he recovers before he manages to fall.

"Seriously?" He has the feeling that if he brings Jerry to Thorn with that smile still on his face, the scientist will manage to invent a new power source just by looking at its radiance.

"Yes, of course. It would do us good to take a break, and I'm sure they'll enjoy meeting you." Or so he hopes, but, after all, that boy has the ability to make everyone smile, and that is something that will do the grief-stricken Military officers good.

"Awesome!"

The Civilian Commander chuckles, listening to Jerry's happy chirping and answering his questions as they approach the Communications Center, where, according to the young man, the Sanders brothers are.

When the door opens, he is not disappointed.

Dexter is attending a call while his older brother tinkers with some kind of motherboard on the seat next to his, but they both look up at the newcomers.

August fells relief at the sight of the Military Communications Officer, as groomed as usual and without more wrinkles on his clothes than sitting on a chair can account for, dark glasses shining under the light.

The cherry-blond waves at them to come inside before turning back to the screens and consoles, still talking into his headphones.

When they approach, the boy almost bouncing by his side, the older Sanders stands up, putting his task on the now unoccupied chair, and nods respectfully at him.

"Commander Sanders, it's nice to see you again."

"Likewise, Civilian Commander Prime."

"—contact you later." Dexter almost jumps out of his chair as soon as he finishes talking, taking off his headphones. "So, to what do we owe this visit, Sir?"

"I just wanted to come by to see how you were doing, and introduce Jerry to your brother, if he doesn't mind." He answers, smiling, as he pushes the boy forward softly.

"You're not missing much, Little Bee."

The Military Communications Officer tenses sharply as soon as the words leave the younger Sanders' mouth, looking at—or at least in the direction of—the youngest blond still fidgeting nervously.

Dexter moves so fast August doesn't have time to do more than frown in worry.

"Johnny? Bro, you alright?" He asks softly, a hand wrapped around an upper arm as the other clasps his older brother's own.

"Yes." The voice is barely more than a whisper, but it's still the same monotone the Civilian Government Commander is used to. "He's… young."

The cherry-blond looks at a slightly apprehensive Jerry with a small confused frown, but his eyes quickly widen in realization.

"Oh." Two beeps sound from the console, and the Communications Officer quickly turns to it, his usual smile coming back to his face with a hint of mischievousness. "Hey, come here, I'm gonna introduce you to the guys." He adds, tugging his brother so that he's by the chair with the motherboard before letting him go. "You two, come closer or it won't work." Confused and curious, August and the boy approach as Dexter fiddles with the console, his headphones back on but only one ear covered. "And we'll be on air… Now! Hello there, Civilian Government. I'm your host and beloved Communications Officer, Dexter Sanders, with a surprise from the Communications Center." Prime can't help the amused and fond smile as Jerry beams, both recognizing the speech as the usual in the CGR. "We've got some guests today, so be ready to welcome Jerry Lee—say hi, Little Bee—"

"Hi guys!" The young blond chirps as Dexter points to where the mics are on the console, the boy leaning towards them happily.

"—our dear Civilian Government Commander, August Prime—"

"Good day, everyone." He joins in at the gesture from the younger Sanders, Jerry snickering silently.

"—and, last but not least, my older bro, the Military Third in Command and Communications Officer, Johnny! Come on, Johnny, say hello."

The older Sanders' expression is impassive, arms crossed against his chest, in what clearly is a reproving look.

"My name is John, not Johnny." He deadpans, and August lets out a relieved sigh he didn't know he'd been holding in at his participation.

"But I'm your little bro, man, can't you cut me some slack?" The dirty-blond doesn't move. "Not even a little?" Nothing. "Aw… Well, I know you love me anyway."

"Hard to know why sometimes."

The other three laugh at the dry retort, quickly catching themselves.

"So, question time is on, people! Use your comms if you have anyth—and it looks like we have a call!" He crows, pushing a button the light over which is on. "From the Science Division, Lab 06. Three guesses on who it is, the options being Science Officer Percival Thorn, Mad Genius Tim Jackson or Gentle Giant Will Daryl! I'm betting on Jack, so… who's calling?"

Snickering is heard from the other side of the line.

::I'm taking offense, Dexter, I'm not mad.:: What is undoubtedly Jackson's voice answers after he calms down, and Jerry claps enthusiastically as he laughs. ::Though yeah, it's Jack. But! There's four of us down here! Uh, scratch that, there's only three of us now. Damn, that guy _can_ run.::

"Four? You have visitors in the Boom Boom Paradise?" August chokes on his laughter as the Military Communications Officer shakes his head, the Civilian one winking at them. "Well, I'm not surprised they ran away. Someone we know?"

::Actually, all but Jerry up there know him. The rest of the building, I have no idea.::

"Whoa, someone the Civilian Government personnel don't know about but the Commander and the Communications Officer do? 'Fess up, Jack, who's that?"

John Sanders turns so quickly that the other three jump in surprise, startled.

"Reeds."

::Yeah, that'd be him.:: Jack answers the Military officer's single word, and the door he's looking at so intently opens.

There, standing in the threshold, is the Air Commander himself, his face almost as emotionless as the older Sanders', with the exception of the smoldering eyes scrutinizing the other three.

Slowly, he steps inside and the door closes automatically at his back.

"Sanders." He says simply, looking at his fellow Military officer, and August has the feeling, crazy as it is with the room being soundproof, that he's answering the Communications Officer previous greeting-like uttering of his surname.

"Uh, well, look at this! People, we have Military Second in Command and Air Commander Steve Reeds here with us too, so lets give him a warm welcome!" Dexter exclaims, managing to recover the first, smile already on place.

His older brother smirks as he looks at the cherry-blond and, to the Civilian Government Commander's befuddlement, he nods as if acknowledging an order before stepping up to the tanned man.

And then, he hooks a hand around the back of the darker neck and pushes their faces together, eyes closed.

There's a loud surprised squeak that he doesn't know if it's Jerry's or his at the sudden and unexpected—not kiss?

The officers' foreheads are pressed together, but their lips are nowhere close, their noses not touching either with the angle of their heads.

And yet, Sanders' hand is resting against Reeds' non-scarred cheek with a softness that is almost lovingly, and the Air Commander's hands are on the Communications Officer's upper arms, almost holding him _close_, but in fact _just holding him_.

Nevertheless, it's a very intimate and somehow private scene, and August doesn't know what to think.

A look at Dexter only leaves him with more questions, for the younger man is looking at the Military officers with a sort of sad and happy smile that he can't decipher.

When he turns back at the still embracing-yet-not men, they seem to barely have even breathed.

"Missed you." The Civilian Government Commander startles at the soft whisper spoken in unison by two different voices, one raspy and high pitched and the other lower and almost without inflection.

The Military officers straighten, their foreheads not touching anymore, but not letting go of the other.

Until Reeds frees one of Sanders' arms just to push the now empty hand over the blond's chest, open wide.

After a second, the Communications Officer pulls away his own from the Air Commander's face, just to lie it on top of the one over his heart and squeeze, putting his free hand on the scarred cheek and letting the thumb caress softly.

Reeds turns his head so that he can nuzzle into it, the hand still on Sanders' arm moving to rest against the side of his head, as the blond releases that on his chest to cover the tanned man's shoulder-blade with it, stepping so close that their chests are pressed together, as well as their foreheads.

August only notices he's blushing when Dexter elbows him in the ribs with a protective look he's only seen on older brothers' faces when their younger sisters go out on their first dates.

The comparison only makes him blush harder, to which the Civilian Communications Officer hisses almost menacingly.

"Would you just use the brain in your cranium and really _look_? They've been working together for years, and closely at that, and they've just lost people really close to them. _That_ is two people who are as close as siblings comforting each other after their losses, not whatever is going through _that_ brain of yours." The cherry-blond man growls softly, voice low so as to not be overheard by the Military officers, finishing his rebuke by pointing at his crotch.

When he looks again at the two men, August feels like slapping himself.

Sanders' shoulders are shaking barely noticeably, the hand on the Air Commander's back gripping the fabric tightly, as if to make sure he won't go anywhere, and the one over the burn scars faintly tracing over marked and unmarked skin, trying to convey not a message of undying love or whatever other cheesy or lustful thought, but of support, letting the tanned man know he doesn't care about appearances, but about the fact he's _alive_.

Reeds isn't shaking, but there's a glimmer of something on the corners of his eyes, moisture, like tears that he doesn't want spilled, the hand on the blond head supporting it and softly massaging the back, as if to ward off a headache, while the one on the Communications Officer's chest has moved to let the arm encircle the other man, helping him stand in case his shaking knees give up.

Ignoring Jack's voice asking something through the comm, the Civilian Government Commander finds himself putting an arm around Jerry's now shaking shoulders and pulling him close, feeling very _very_ sorry.

* * *

Prowl and Jazz were almost outside the Civilian Government building when a passing comment froze them in their steps.

Slowly, they turned around, listening, and got back into the elevator.

_"Military Third Sanders is in the building?"_

_"In the Communications Center with Dexter. Did you know they're brothers?"_

Jazz quickly took out his phone and synchronized the frequency of the CGR.

Soundwave's voice welcomed them, bickering with the other Sanders.

Stunned, the Enforcers looked at each other, Jackson's words slipping past them in their surprise and silent conversation, until the Military Third cut through him with yet another known name.

_"Reeds."_

Dumbfounded, they looked at the mobile phone as Dexter spoke and silence fell on them, a strange yelping sound coming out of it, but nothing more.

They were finally on the Communications Center's floor when the younger Sanders' voice came up again, in a low growl, and they froze at the words.

A second later, hope started to grow in Jazz's chest, and he walked faster, Prowl mirroring his every step.

The door before them opened automatically, and they stopped once more.

A short look is enough to know the two men embracing in the middle of the room are Soundwave and Starscream, not John and Steve.

Jazz's hope soars at the same time his heart shatters.

Prowl is the first to move, slowly approaching them and resting a hand on the Communications Officer's shoulder when he looks up, untangling from the embrace bit by bit, though not so reluctantly once he has the Civilian Second's support.

The Head of Spec Ops stops by his immediate superior's side, but his gaze is fixed on Starscream's dark eyes, who lets his fellow Military officer go without wavering, moving to stand by the blond's side in a reflection of the Civilian Third.

He doesn't know if Dexter, Prime and young Jerry Lee understand what's going on, but Jazz's message is clear to those he sends it.

Prowl and Soundwave have lost people harshly, people that depended on them, one in the memory of something that didn't happen and another in a live experience that shouldn't have been real, so they will support each other, to be able to do so for others needing them.

Jazz and Starscream have lost people too, but they are bound to protect at the cost of their own lives if needed, and they won't fail that promise like they did before, one in a fuzzy and broken dream that feels like a memory and another in a too clear and repeating reality that feels like a nightmare, so they will watch over their self-proclaimed charges, and over the other one's.

And so, when they look at the other three men in the room, it may look like they're being polite by standing in a line to not block anyone's sight, but the four of them know that it isn't the truth, that what they are doing is presenting a united front, with the two in the middle keeping them together while those on the ends protect the others.

::Hey, Dexter, do me a favor and open a line with Jazz for me, would you?::

They all startle at the sudden voice coming from the console's speakers, the four of them tensing, as if readying for an attack, while the other three jump a bit.

A blink later, the Civilian Third recognizes Aaron Blake's voice.

Which means, unless he has the mechanics of the comm systems wrong, that Jackson has cut his call and Blake's has been patched through because of being the first, or the only one, in the queue.

And since the comm system is now connected with the CGR, everybody has heard the Transports Officer.

With an exaggerated sigh, Jazz steps forward as his partners—partners? Friends? Accomplices? What should he call them?—relax.

"Blake, you know you're on air, don't you?" He asks when he gets near the console, and the silence that answers him is more than enough. "Do I need to patch this to a private line?"

::Nah, just come to Rec Room 5, Reeds is being an ass and—::

"Wait, _Reeds_? No way, Commander Reeds is here, in the Communications Center." Jerry cuts in with a confused frown, and the Military officers exchange confused looks.

::Commander Reeds is down here, kid. How could he be—Oh, wait. You're talking about _Steve_ Reeds, aren't you? Geez, people, get up to date. The Air Commander's _Shawn_ Reeds now, not that old glory.::

Jazz can't help but snicker at that, chancing a glance at a fuming Starscream, who is being kept in place by an emotionless-looking yet clearly amused Soundwave, if his slightly cocked head is any indication, Prowl crossing his arms against his chest with a deadpanned look that would be a lecture about propriety and politeness if Blake was anywhere in sight.

"Yeah, whatever. I'll be down in five minutes, don't—"

::Got another problem.:: He doesn't sound extremely worried by it, but the Head of Spec Ops stops talking nevertheless. ::I seem to have lost the Air Commander. He was here with me, but now he's not. Oh, well, guess I don't need your help right now, then.:: The Civilian Third can't help but roll his eyes at that.

_Typical Aaron Blake fashion._

"We'll talk later, then." He says simply before stepping away, the Transports Officer's farewell a simple click as he cuts the connection.

The door opens and Jazz tenses at the Military Second's blue-eyed doppelganger smirking at them from the threshold.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my dear older brother." The Enforcer quickly turns to a confused Starscream before taking his attention to Shawn Reeds once more.

"Do I know you?" The dark-eyed tanned man asks without a hint of confusion, analyzing the newcomer, who approaches like a cat stalking an oblivious mouse.

"Not personally, no. Mother left before I was born, after all."

The next second ranks the number three in his scale of Scary Moments, higher than the 'Cybertronian Experience', but below 'Prowl's Breakdown' and 'Not-Really-There Soundwave and Starscream'.

Dark eyes flash white gray for even less than a second before a scowl appears on the scarred Air Commander's face.

"Oh, so _you_ are my _little brother_."

Jazz steps back in fear at the same time Prowl and Soundwave do so, but neither of them does it because of the darkness in the raspy voice.

That flash, that flickering of Starscream's optics, was like a computer downloading new data.

Unable to restrain himself, the Head of Special Operations starts to shake, one hand grasping the cloth over his chilled heart tight enough to pull the shirt taut against his torso.

"I am." Shawn continues like he hasn't even noticed the three men's reactions, straightening almost pompously. "God gifted me with a life in the superior _Iacon_ Protectodome, preparing me for the day I would come here to extend His word and deliver His blessing to all of you pitiful souls."

Starscream breaks out laughing.

"Are you fragging serious? And Commander Storm put me on leave because _I_ had psychical issues? That's hilarious!" The blue-eyed pilot narrows his eyes as his so-called older brother keeps laughing, obviously not pleased by the outburst.

Jazz can't blame the Military Second for laughing, though, and it is only because the shock hasn't cleared yet that he hasn't joined in.

_As if Primus would need someone to deliver His word and blessing._

"You are short-sighted, brother, for how do you explain my coming here, to my old home, to fill _your_ position in your time of need?"

"Maybe because the Supreme Commander asked _Iacon_ for it?" The dark-eyed man answers mockingly, and the other bristles.

"None but God asked for my coming, for if He had deemed it unworthy I would not have left my Protectodome!" Starscream snorts, trying to keep his chuckles at bay but not bothering to hide his too wide sharp smirk. "Blind fool, you bear the markings of His decision upon you, yet you refuse to see!"

Jazz's dying shock returns tenfold, and his jaw falls open in disbelief as he can't look away from the enraged Air Commanders.

The only marks the Military Second bears are the casts on leg and arm and the burn marks on his face, and none of them are 'Godly' in nature.

"Black Beasts were responsible for my injuries. Do you claim to worship _them_?" The raspy voice is low and sibilant, hissing menacingly, and the other returns it with ire.

"Only One is real and only One shall be adored. The Black Beasts are the Devil's pawns, set to end His heritage, but He is all powerful and almighty, and so He chose the worthiest of His children to continue His creation, and the best among them to be the protectors of the people. And you, _dear brother_, are no longer needed by Him. You are not fit as a protector."

Jazz's eyes widen even further, his shaking intensifying to the point he has to clench his fists in order to stop his hands from bouncing, Starscream's burning rage keeping them away from the confrontation despite their urge to help.

"You _dare_."

The Head of Spec Ops feels his blood start to boil, the trembling of his fists being now in response to the same ire the Military officer is almost glowing with.

—_whispers in the street, the pain growing the longer it goes on, and yet they still refuse—_

"You dare throw away the efforts of those who valiantly fought against the monsters by calling them _puppets_?"

The soft buzzing coming from a silently snarling Soundwave fills the room with electric charge, showing that he feels it too, the indignation, the hate…

—_lifeless husks hidden in the shadows, the scavengers fighting for them, for their last resource—_

"You dare classify us, think us different because of who we are?"

Prowl's clenching of his fists is almost louder than his threatening growling, a warning to those that would try to stop him from accomplish his task, from regaining the freedom lost…

—_wise words ignored, the egocentric needs of the few overwhelming the many—_

"You dare judge people by that glitched belief that we are slaves, our future determined before we even come to exist?"

They're all trembling harshly, barely restraining themselves, for they know what will happen if they act, because they won't bow nor will they lose time talking, they will jump at their throats and _dispatch them_…

—_the rumors aren't rumors anymore, and he can't help but feel happy and doubt his loyalties—_

"You dare taint the memory of those who sacrificed themselves for the future?"

Their bodies freeze, the rage so powerful, their muscles so coiled and battle-ready they can't move them to even breath unless they want to snap…

—_there isn't fire anymore, but that only means the uncountable bodies on the ground are visible at last—_

"Taint their sacrifices? Please, it was by His will that they died, useless as they were, hampering the real protectors and endangering the people… They _deserved_ to die."

Starscream's blood red eyes widen almost impossibly, the color dripping down his cheeks and chin with his wavering step, droplets falling, falling, _falling—_

—_quickly and he can only scream as the whole city explodes, the shock-waves slamming—_

—on the floor, but Dexter catches him, Soundwave's limp hands not making a move to clean the blood slipping from his nose, red eyes visible as the glasses rest on the—

—_scorched ground, lifeless husks the only thing left, not even one of the magnificent Towers still—_

—standing thanks to the wall, a hand pressed to one bleeding ear, but Prowl's blue eyes are lost in memories painful enough to—

—_kill everything, not because of him, but the bunch of idiots who thought themselves _better_—_

"—to get away or I'm going to dismantle you and smelt you while making sure you can feel _every instant_ of it."

And the tanned and blue-eyed man does so, stepping away from Starscream's fallen frame, on the opposite direction to where Prowl's slumped against the wall, a tall and uniformed guy keeping his torso upright, not going near where a cherry-blond is supporting Soundwave's limp body either, but Jazz doesn't lower the gun he keeps trained on him, nor does he follow the urge to clear his intakes of whatever warm fluid is starting to fill them, despite the small and young human pleading him to stand down.

When the door opens to let the medical units in, he puts away his weapon and rushes to help his friends, wondering why all his scans and comm system are offline.

* * *

**AN:** First of all, take into account **the opinions of the characters aren't those of the author**. To those who are religious, this is **not** intended as an offense, this is just how the characters are and a bit of world building.

Thing is, there are three main views about religion (a general one, not any specific one) in this world: those who don't believe, those who think this is the Apocalypse, and those who believe this is a Celestial War.

The first would be Starscream's kind and Jazz's, to an extension: They either don't believe in Gods, or they do, but don't think they are 'blessed' or 'cursed' when it comes to Protectodomes and Black Beasts. This is simply another thing humans have to take care of on their own.

The second would be those that think the deity/deities has/have lost faith on humanity and sent the Black Beasts to 'cleanse' the Earth, or something of the like. So, God (or Gods) would be like the Sodom and Gomorrah one (sorry, don't know equivalents for other religions).

And the third, which would be Shawn Reeds', believe the Black Beasts are demons and the humans alive nowadays are those God (or Gods) has (have) blessed/benefited/favorited.

**Updated** with new writing pattern to differentiate "Speech" / _"Memories" _/ ::Comm lines:: / "**Different language**"

**Angel Heart:** Nice to read from you again! And afraid I don't have a real answer to making scenes fluffy and serious, I just... write, and things happen (usually characters deciding they want to act differently than planned, throwing all semblance of guidelines away). I'm glad you liked the thing with pictures, I was afraid it would end a bit tiring (initially, there was supposed to be only the one with Will and Steve and then talk, but things never happen as I plan them). I didn't think of the scene with Dexter and Jazz as cute... Which is all good, 'cause it looked like it would be an overall angsty chapter, with only the couple of jokes between Jazz and Blake, so I'm glad it wasn't so angst-heavy to the readers.

Jazz is the most instinctive of the four when it comes to the 'different' things, and, with the more they find out, it's becoming harder for all to reconcile both realities, but specially to him (eye color, as you've seen, is one of the things that bugs him the most) so I'm glad the struggle showed.

And yes, new characters! About time I could finally find some place to insert them, and the ones that popped up here. Oh, and I hope you see now that, despite what I tried to make it look like in that scene, they aren't exactly the same (I hope, at least with the Reeds duo, since Raleigh didn't show up here). Also, there goes the answer to the question about Shawn. Raleigh's will come in later chapters.

And I'm glad the chart helps, no matter how many columns there are :) I know it can get confusing, so 'go, chart!' *cheers*

Thanks for everything (x2) and hope to read from you again next week!


	12. Twist

_Only the brightest stars are visible from where he's standing, but he doesn't care, for they aren't the reason he has come here._

_And yet, he can't help but look at them._

_Ever shining yet never judging, not even in such a tumultuous time._

_He can't help the urge to flee, to go away until all is solved, until all has been proven a corrupted memory flux._

_He can't._

_Instead of giving in, he raises a servo to the bright lights over them, reaching for their soothing nature, for their serenity, for their strength._

_The star he's looking at explodes._

* * *

His head lowers as he approaches the hidden door, making sure he's alone before tapping a specific rhythm.

A spyhole opens and he lifts a hand, showing the ring around his index finger, light shining over the engraved characters.

Some clicking later, the door opens and he presses a finger on the handed card, entering after its surface turns green.

Artificially green eyes blink at the darkness to help him see, but he doesn't stop walking in the interim.

After clearing one more checkpoint, the door at the end of the corridor unlocks and he steps blindly into the light.

* * *

_He doesn't move, he doesn't even modify his intake rhythm, despite the agony he's in._

_He doesn't look when he hears voices through the static, knowing too well it will result in more pain if they know he's aware._

_He's surprised they haven't noticed yet._

_They must be busy, distracted, occupied by something else._

_Or someone._

_He suppresses a shudder of both pain and fear and forces his sensory nodes to shut down._

_The lack of agony is a too pressing silence almost worse than the overwhelming signals._

_The static hasn't cleared, so he rises his audials' sensitivity and listens._

* * *

"I have no idea what is going on."

He squeezes the white-clad shoulder reassuringly, but the older man doesn't relax.

The Supreme Commander crosses his arms against his chest, frustration clear on his face, but unneeded to know he's worried.

He's rarely out of the Military Base, so being in the Civilian Government building is a big enough clue.

"I want them back." They look at the man with surprise, but green eyes allow no discussion. "Being off duty hasn't helped." Despite the harsh tone, he knows there's an apology in the look given to him. "I want them back."

* * *

_He lowers his servo slowly, remorseful yet entranced, as the fading bubble of light expands._

_When it vanishes, there's only darkness, another spot of emptiness in the vast space._

_He feels his systems lag at that, and can't help but wonder how long it will be until the same happens in their cities._

_He pushes the despair away, remembering his fellow officers, their efforts, their unyielding determination to not allow such a thing to happen._

_He takes strength from them, from the hope that it's still soon, that they have a chance to set things right before they get worse._

* * *

He puts on the robe given to him, so black it looks devoid of light, and sits on the signaled cushion.

And waits.

The only sounds are those of the last people entering the room and dressing in the ritual clothes.

Even in his head there's only silence.

He has nothing to think about.

Not even the mission.

Surgically whitened hands rest on his thighs, their relaxed fingers not belaying the maelstrom growing in his chest.

Dyed brown hair slips from under the hood to dangle in front of his eyes.

He barely has the time to tug it away.

* * *

_The voices talk of alloys, structural changes, weapon upgrades._

_He doesn't understand._

_So, he turns to his own body, putting self-diagnoses in stand by._

_There's something more urgent he needs to take care of._

_He remembers an annoying yet familiar voice's accusations and complaints, so he turns down his processor activity by putting non-essential systems in stand by._

_Not outright shutting them off, because that would be a blatant way of advertising his awareness, but diminishing the input received._

_His processor is his strongest weapon, his hidden edge._

_He won't let anyone take it away as long as he functions._

* * *

"Do you know the risks of doing that?!"

"And do you know the ones of _not_ doing it?"

He looks between his two oldest friends, unable to take a side.

"What if it happens again?"

"And what if it turns to _his_ people _again_?"

The finger pointing at him isn't accusing, but he flinches.

He's failed his men, his friends, by not ensuring their safety.

Knowing of the situation in the Military, he should have taken measures to ensure it didn't extend to Civilian Government.

But he didn't.

And now, they're in an even worse situation than the Black Day.

* * *

_He looks up one last time at where the dead star was, the void a source of strength now instead of one of despair._

_And then, he turns around and starts to walk._

_He's in no hurry, no calls coming through, no emergency blaring for his attention._

_He has enough in his processor to think about for him to take the journey back slowly._

_And he finds himself worrying, over and over again, about the same topic he's been trying to avoid, about the extinction of a smaller yet not less brighter star on the face of their own planet._

* * *

The man's voice is a droning sound at the edge of his perception, going over the virtues and the blessings of the cult he's about to join.

A cult that worships Black Beasts, and would go so far as to sabotage the Protectodome to fulfill their twisted adoration.

He can't allow that.

He's not allowed to.

He watches the acolytes rise, one by one, to approach the Master and receive the blessing, a single black line crossing their foreheads.

Cold inside, he rises as a hand is extended toward him.

The maelstrom boils stronger as he steps on the dais.

* * *

_Through one of the lines plugged into his helm-ports, he accesses the computers._

_Blueprints of crafts and weapons fill them, but he doesn't dare look deeper._

_Not while the voices are loud around him._

_So, he studies those already up for him to see._

_And shudders inwardly, glad his first reaction is to hide hints of emotion._

_Cybertronian._

_Tetrajets._

_And an incoming stream of data on developing upgrades for both them as a whole and parts._

_The one at the forefront has a detailed list of recent repairs on the cockpit area, as well as another of modifications being applied._

* * *

"They're sabotaging us."

The other two men turn to him, startled out of their debate by his dark voice.

"How so?"

But the Military man knows.

"If they get us, our Seconds take charge."

"If they get our Seconds, our Thirds fill in."

"But if they get both of them…"

"They leave us without a support base, and no replacements in sight."

The medic pales.

"They aren't breaking down the building. They're going for the foundations."

"And once they destroy them…"

"The rest of Governance will follow."

"And the Protectodome soon after it."

The silence is cold, dark and threatening.

* * *

_He feels it before he turns around, before seeing the explosions and being thrown back by the shock-waves._

_He feels it, sees it, hears it, but can't believe it._

_He quickly gets back to his pedes, shouts of disbelief and horror filling his audials, as well as the buzzing of a hailing comm call, but he can't answer._

_And then, his gaze turns skyward to try to find out where the attack is coming from, and it's as if all his sensors have been ripped from his frame, leaving him without more input than that his optics are providing him._

* * *

"Can I ask a last question?"

The hand stops in front of his closed eyes, but he can feel it, feel the confusion of the man and the indignant anger of those at his back for interrupting.

He can almost hear the ink slipping down that blackened finger.

"Of course."

He lifts his head slowly, feeling bangs of curly fake brown bouncing out of the hood once more.

And opens his eyes.

"Did you really think it would work?"

Before anyone can fully process his words, he whirls behind the Master, shielded from the hidden guns, and snaps his neck.

* * *

_He retreats back into his processor as the voices close in to cross out the last of the Tetrajet's modifications._

_And feels the package of data being sent to him._

_It's already decompressing when he secures it into a quickly emptied and quarantined area, information downloading and installing without any problem, but not affecting him._

_The voices don't notice._

_But he does, when he hears them talk about another package, feels it being coded through the connection with the computer._

_He sends a small line to weave with the decompressing orders, modifying them to quarantine the install area before download._

* * *

There are only two left in the room, but the medic doesn't seem to care.

He looks at the closed door one last time before sitting down in front of the desk, worry almost overwhelming him at the sight of the other man, looking older than his age can account for.

"What are you going to do?"

"What _can_ I do? You're right, both of you. And until something is done, the only option is to clear them once they recover from this so that they can train their replacements. Do you think it will get worse?"

"Let's hope not."

* * *

_He moves as fast as his engine allows, but it's still too slow._

_By the time he gets there, it's over._

_The attack, the city, the brothers thought lost, the population…_

_Over._

_He manages to catch a glint of the attackers through the smoke, and it only serves to further chill his core._

_They had helped each other as if they were of the same frame-type. They had shared the same views, the same opinions…_

_And now, their brothers attacked them, demolished their city, obliterated its inhabitants._

_What he'd thought was a black hole had just revealed itself a supernova._

* * *

He dances through the multitude, the borrowed gun having made a quick job of the armed guards, whose weapons he requisitioned and put to a good use in the cleansing.

The screams are static in his ears, the shots barely more than a tingling up his arms, each impossibly precise, perfect.

Warm liquid covers his shoes and weighs down his black robe, but he doesn't slip nor slow.

And when the last gun clicks to tell about an empty chamber, he throws it away, grabs the closest body, and twists the neck with a sharp crack.

He still sees purple.

* * *

_Nothing in the voices tells him if his line has been found, so he takes it as a good sign._

_He hopes it has worked, for the sake of whoever the package was sent to, as he starts to look over the data it installed in his processor._

_Suppression programs, behavioral directives, fake memory data…_

_He shudders in the safety of his processor, and, despite his curiosity, doesn't dwell further in the package, for he's still being closely monitored, and he doesn't want to give himself up._

_Alarms blare loudly and he almost flinches._

_And then, he's forced into stasis._

* * *

Will is so deep in his thoughts, in his worry, that he doesn't hear the hover-cars going past him in the street, not the people talking with each other or into their phones.

Dexter told him about his idea to bring his brother to the Civilian Government building, hoping the familiar environment and the presence of the cherry-blond would help his slow recovery.

Will asked if he could do the same with Steve, and the Communications Officer answered, five minutes later, with a 'bring him in tomorrow'.

More thankful than he's been in a while, he did so.

The subdued Air Commander quickly cheered up once he got him in the lab, and Jack and Percy welcomed him warmly, more so once the four of them got to work.

Not only is Steve an excellent scientist, despite the years of inactivity, but his knowledge of Cybertronian is the biggest asset to their current task there could be.

All was well and good until Jack convinced them to tune in the CGR through their portable radio.

Dexter's happy introductions of the people with him in the Communications Center was enough to shatter their relatively calm working atmosphere.

Jack had just called the cherry-blond when Steve snapped out of his surprised shock and _flew_ out of the lab, so fast was he running.

When Will made it to the door, there was no sign of the Air Commander on the corridor.

Stunned and slightly exasperated, the scientist decided to let him be, someone would show him the way back to the lab when he tired of running around directionless.

And yet, somehow, Steve managed to make it to the Communications Center, and quickly at that.

After the confusing exchange between Blake and the Civilian Third, Will decided to go fetch his friend.

When he got to the room, he found it full of medics and with three unconscious and bleeding officers, one of which was the tanned man himself.

They didn't allow him into the Med Bay, keeping him outside with the Civilian Government Commander, Jazz Smith, Jerry Lee, and a guy so similar to Steve that it gave him goosebumps.

Jack and Percy brought him back to the lab after that, but none of them said anything when he just sat in his chair staring at the table.

Bouncing the bag of groceries a bit higher in his arms, Will shakes his head and stops to take a deep breath.

Last he knows, The Hatchet was called to take a look at them, and, since they're in the Civilian Hospital, it'll be easier to see Steve, more so because he is the one listed as his contact.

Feeling a bit less frantic though not calmer, the scientist takes another step towards his apartment.

And stops at the unexpected _thump_ coming from the alley he's standing in front of.

Curious, he looks into it, and his eyes widen when he sees the lump in front of an open door that is an unmoving man.

Before he can act, another steps out, smaller and leaner, and takes off his long black robe, throwing it to the opposite wall like one would a used tissue.

When the bundle of cloth falls to the ground, a red smear has appeared where it collided.

The man on the ground is _too still_.

Green eyes look into his blue ones from a pale face half hidden by extremely curly brown locks.

Will pales when the man smiles almost happily, and startles when he gestures for him to move to the side.

Before he can, someone pushes him out of the way to run into the alley, and it's only when some more rush past him that he recognizes their uniforms.

Enforcers.

To his utter surprise, though, they don't arrest the formerly black-robed man, who has his head lowered and is rubbing his eyes, but enter the building with weapons up, one of the last stopping next to the guy on the ground—

And startling badly, the hand pressed against the neck moving almost frantically in what Will knows is a search for a heartbeat.

"Sir, you—"

"Yeah, I did." The scientist tenses when the—the _murderer_ answers, revealing himself as a higher ranked Enforcer, but his status isn't the reason he does so.

He recognizes his voice and his now black eyes, green contact lenses resting on the red-stained hand that had been rubbing his face, a small smear of crimson on one cheek.

And he's approaching him.

"William Daryl. Didn't know you'll be by. Know who I am? The guys did a good job giving me a new look, didn't they?" The blond can only nod, looking Third in Command Jazz Smith over, recognizing the features despite the paler skin color.

And balking at the red footprints left behind after each step closer he takes.

Civilian Third in Command _and_ Head of Special Operations of the Enforcers Jazz Smith.

"Sorry to be sending you off so soon, and all that, but we're in the middle of an operation. Would you mind—?"

"Captain Smith?"

The pleasant smile on the strange yet familiar face turns searing cold, and Will takes a step back when the smaller man turns around to face the Enforcer that has just come out of the building, wide-eyed with astonishment and worry.

"Yes?" The voice is pleasant enough, but the scientist shivers.

"What happened?" The now brown-haired man tilts his head, almost like a child that doesn't understand the question.

"What do you mean?"

"The suspects, they're all… dead." The first Enforcer, the one who had stayed outside with the _body_, looks at his coworker with overtly clear surprise and dread.

"Duh, of course." The three men pale at the carefree answer. "Our job was to deal with them so that they didn't endanger the Protectodome. _Now_ they can't, so good job, send in a clean up crew and go home." He adds cheerfully, clapping once, and Will takes yet another step back.

"You killed _over fifty people_ on your own because we were ordered to _deal with them_?" A happy nod answers the blanching man. "Where did you get the gun?"

"There were four guards, each with a six-round gun."

"That only means twenty-four shots…"

"There are a lot more ways to get rid of someone, guys. Broken neck, cracked skull, crushed windpipe—"

The bag of groceries falls to the ground, but Will doesn't care, doesn't hear it nor the rest of Third in Command Smith's words.

He can just lean against the wall and throw up his meager breakfast.

When he finally stops dry-heaving, there's a boyish Enforcer by his side, rubbing his back soothingly as he stares at him with worry.

"—really sorry you found yourself in that mess, sir, are you fine now? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I… I'm better. Thank you." He answers, voice raspy, as the man guides him away from the wall and helps him seat on the back of an Enforcers' hover-car.

"No need to thank me, sir, it's my job. I'm going to the Hospital, and I don't want to impose or anything, but I'd like to get you there too, just in case, because you're not injured or anything, but that has to have been quite a shock and I would feel better if a doctor could look you up. Would you prefer to ride on the front or the back? Because you may have thrown up already, but if you get motion-sick I would like to know, even if you aren't going to throw up in the car, 'cause I don't want to make you feel worse, and I apologize beforehand because all our hover-cars are standard and you're a big guy and you're not going to be comfortable even if you decide to come and don't get motion-sick and—"

"Come on, Phillips, let the guy think." Someone laughs by their side, cutting the young man's tirade, and Will has to shake his head softly to get rid of the buzzing in his ears.

When he looks up at the newcomer, though, his stomach clenches again.

The now paler and brown-haired Jazz Smith.

"Do you get motion-sick?" He can only shake his head at the question, his throat clenched shut at the closeness to a known remorseful and resourceful killer. "Then I would recommend the back seat. You can stretch your legs better if you sit sideways, which, being in an Enforcers' car, won't be punished." He adds chirpily, and he only nods and moves further into the vehicle he's already in. "You drive, Phillips!" And then, to Will's dreadful surprise, he opens the front door and sits in the passenger seat.

"Sure, Jazz—I mean, Sir, yes Sir!"

The door to the back is closed, trapping the scientist inside, before the younger man rounds the car and gets into the driver seat.

The ride to the Hospital passes by in a flurry, Phillips talking non-stop about something or other with the Third in Command answering or butting in from time to time.

When they finally stop in front of the building, Will has managed to calm down enough to convince himself about Captain Smith doing his job, however unorthodox his methods may be, and that his reaction was a big exaggeration due to the fact he's a civilian that the closest he's been to violence is being friends with the Air Commander.

"I thank you for everything, but I'm going to go home." He tells the Enforcers as they get out of the parked car, earning himself startled and curious looks. "It was just the shock of the situation, nothing more, and it's passed by now."

The younger man looks at his superior officer pleadingly, obviously worried about him, and the dark-eyed man winks back at him with a smile.

"Yeah, I get what you're saying, but we would both feel better if you got checked up, so I'm going to propose a deal." He lifts an eyebrow at that, surprised, and nods for the other to proceed. "You come inside and let a medic look you over, and I get you to Reeds."

And Will knows, as soon as the name is out, that he's going to accept the proposal.

Judging by the widening of the smile on that strangely paler face, the Third in Command knows it too.

"Alright, lets get in, shall we?"

Both him and the younger Enforcer follow and wait at a small distance as the Head of Spec Ops talks with the nurse on desk duty.

"I'm Drew Phillips, Enforcer. Nice to meet you!" The smaller man chirps happily, and he returns the smile and shakes the offered hand.

"Will Daryl, scientist for Civilian Government." The other beams at him and opens his mouth, most likely to launch a tirade of questions, but the Third in Command waving them closer stops him before he can even start.

They follow him once more as he enters a corridor, moving like he knows the building by hand while answering Drew's curious inquiries.

Captain Smith knocks on a door after some walking and an elevator ride, and, instead of a voice answering, the door opens.

Will's mouth falls open when he sees Civilian Commander August Prime standing on the other side, as surprised as he is.

When they are ushered inside to meet Ryan Shepherd's scanning gaze, the scientist has reached his limit of surprises.

"And why, pray tell, are you three here?" The doctor asks, getting up from his seat and approaching them.

"I'm here because I had to bring Captain Smith here, and I decided to bring Will too because he overheard and threw up and wasn't looking too good, but he says he feels better now, and the Captain's here because he flew off the handle and killed the suspects."

Silence.

And then, as the rest of the room breaks into a cacophony of shouts and questions, Will lowers himself into the closest available chair, feeling sick again.

"_Enough_!"

Silence falls once more as everyone stares at the scientist in surprise, but he doesn't care, he's just grateful their loud voices aren't aggravating his growing headache anymore.

"So, can you give him a check up? I promised him he'd be able to see the Air Commander after that." The Third in Command asks nonchalantly.

The Hatchet doesn't answer, but he's kneeling in front of the larger man the next instant, shining a light in his eyes and taking his pulse.

"You killed the suspects?" Civilian Commander Prime talks softly, but it's easily audible in the silence.

"Fifty-three people. Twenty-four dead by gunshots, six through the heart and the rest through the head; twelve—"

"Not now." The doctor growls as Will pales, the hand on his forearm squeezing reassuringly, and Phillips falls silent.

"I know the orders were to get inside, find the needed evidence, and get them once the ceremony was over, but I had the chance to do something, so I acted."

"By _killing_ them? Jazz, they—"

"Were supposed to be taken in and questioned? I think not." And the room grows cold at the menacing answer, enough to make Shepherd and Will look up at the Civilian officers, a nervous Phillips twirling his thumbs near the door and biting his lower lip. "There was no way I was going to let those terrorists get out there fully functional. We have enough slag to deal with to add more to it." There's a couple of seconds of heavy silence before a soft smile appears on the Third in Command's face once more. "Now, can I go see how my boss is doing? And if you're finished with Daryl, can he come too? They're still in the same room for monitoring, right?"

Shepherd doesn't answer, not immediately, but, after what seems an eternity, he nods and stands up.

"Just try not to put him in shock again with more morbid stories." He says nonchalantly as he waves the scientist away, and the Head of Spec Ops quickly grabs his arm and guides him out of the room.

The walk is short and silent, though not as unpleasant as Will had thought it'd be.

The reason is the skip in the shorter man's step, the happiness and eagerness to see Second in Command Fowler, that make him seem younger and, despite the day's events, innocent.

He doesn't know if it's all a ploy, but he's willing to play along this time.

There are four beds in the room, none hidden by the dividing curtains, but only three are occupied, the Military officers on one side and the Civilian Second in front of them.

Two of them are awake, and Captain Smith quickly lets him go as he moves to the Commander-in-Chief's bedside, confused green eyes looking at the approaching man.

"Hey there, boss. Don't let your sight trick you, I'm Jazz. Just came from an insight job, so that's why I look like—Oomph!" The scientist blinks in surprise, mouth falling open, as the Second in Command pulls his fellow officer in a bone-shattering hug, eyes closed tightly and face half buried in the now brown-haired man's shoulder. "Easy, I'm here. I'm fine, we all are, and you are too." The Head of Spec Ops returns the embrace and keeps talking, though so softly that he can't catch his words anymore.

Feeling a bit like a stranger, he goes to Sanders' side, and the bedridden man looks up at him with half-lidded blue eyes, ruffled blond hair and too pale skin.

All in all, he looks exhausted.

"How do you feel?" He asks softly, and the other sighs tiredly.

"Been better." But there's the smallest of smiles on his lips, and the scientist returns the gesture.

Grumbling from the third occupied bed makes them all look at the slowly awakening Air Commander, and Will quickly goes by his side.

When dark eyes open, they look up at him with confusion before that becomes annoyance.

"What did I do this time?" He rasps, and the taller man laughs as quietly as he can, feeling relief fill him.

"You gave your bro a speech so passionate that it slagged us all." The Civilian Third answers with a wide smile, and the scientist blinks at the strange word.

Slang, most likely, or a variation of a curse word to not clue children in.

"A speech that what?" Steve asks, also lost by the choice in vocabulary, and the other three tense with an intensity that makes Will want to wince in reflected pain.

"Just… you followed the sound waves and then Shawn Reeds showed up…"

"Yes, I know my brother was there, now, can you stop talking in riddles, Captain Smith?"

"My… apologies."

And the room falls silent, with the Civilian officers exchanging blank looks and the Communications Officer shaking softly in his bed, eyes closed with a small frown as if trying to push away some kind of pain.

When Shepherd comes to check on them, Will goes away, feeling guilty at his relief when he exits the tension-filled room.

* * *

**AN:** Hi there, people! Surprise update!

Reason? I'm happy :) And I've got next chapter done and polished, and the second next lacks only some details before being given a once over... So yeah, I decided not to leave you all hanging with what happened to the guys.

Even if this chapter is... well :P

Funny fact: All the small sections at the beginning are exactly 100 words. The first three wrote themselves that way, and I thought it looked nice, so, since the rest weren't much shorter/longer, I modified them to be alike. Hope you figured the pattern out, though don't hesitate to ask any and all questions that may pop up.

Hope you all have a nice week, and until next Saturday!


	13. Picking up the Pieces

"Hey, Dad, we're going outside with Chelsea and Rowan. We're going to beat them at football, and Ralph's going to be the referee, wanna see?" Lizzie is smiling brightly, and, despite the dark thoughts he's just been pulled out of, he returns the gesture, though a lot softer.

"Of course." He answers, standing up, and his daughter rushes outside with a happy laugh.

He doubts for a second before deciding to bring the mug with him.

It would be a shame to let the coffee in it go cold, after all.

Ralph, Buzz, Rowan and Chelsea are stretching, but they all look up when he gets outside, welcoming him enthusiastically as they resume their exercises, Lizzie quickly joining in.

He sits down on the step, smile still on his face, and observes.

The garden is big and well kept, perfect for practicing his niece's favorite sport when in small groups.

It goes well with the rest of the big, old but well conserved house that's been in the Sanders' family since seemingly forever.

Obviously, it can't be forever, but without the Hall of Records, any speculation can be truth.

More so with John Sanders being the oldest of the line.

He winces in sympathy when Buzz tackles Rowan, sending them both tumbling to the ground, but quickly laughs when the blond boy shoves his cousin off with a pout, the ball now in possession of the 'Military Team', as his children call themselves.

His parents passed not longer after Dexter joined Civilian Government, and when the older brother joined the _Nemesis_, he put the house under the younger's name.

He's not bothered by it.

It isn't as if he could make use of it, anyway. Military personnel relocate to the Base when they join, to be on call 24/7 in case of attack.

He's just grateful his brother let his children stay with them, even though Dexter always claimed it was nothing to thank him for.

He watches Chelsea avoid both black-haired teenagers and score, crowing happily.

The frown on his face is not because of her.

He remembers walking past the Orphanage a couple of years before joining the Military, and how his gaze immediately found Freddy and Allan scaring some older children away from Buzz, Lizzie and Ralph.

He went home and, after explaining what he'd seen, he told Dexter he was going to get them out of there.

His brother just looked at him curiously and accompanied him the next day.

Ralph, shy, little, quiet Ralph, smiled widely and bounced to wrap himself around his leg when the caretaker accompanied them into the room where the children were playing.

The kid said just one word when he looked up into the emotionless face and the dark glasses that scared the other children away.

Home.

Lizzie and Buzz joined them quickly, to 'say their goodbyes' to Ralph, as if they knew he was going to adopt him even though he hadn't said anything.

So, he knelt down and asked them if they wanted to go with him.

The twins were by his side as soon as they nodded, looking stern, to tell him with a no-nonsense tone that he would have to take them too, because, who was going to watch after them otherwise?

John Sanders just smiled and agreed, and when he turned to Dexter, he found him sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking music and sports with two blond children sitting on his knees.

And so, in barely more than an hour, two became nine.

Two years later, almost to the second, he joined the Military.

The reason he is frowning now, watching his kids laughing happily as they manage to get through Chelsea, is because he can't remember why he did it.

Why did he join the Military?

Why did he leave his family?

Why hasn't he thought about it until now?

"You are supposed to be happy when your team scores." He tenses at the unexpected voice and the hand on his shoulder, but quickly relaxes when he sees Dexter sitting down next to him. "Why the frown?"

"Just… thinking." The silence between them is calm and comfortable as they look at their children pile on top of a red-faced Buzz while Ralph whistles shrilly. "Why did I leave?"

Laughing, Chelsea and Lizzie step off their siblings, while Rowan and Buzz, who'd been at the bottom of the pile, take deep breaths and exchange a mischievous look.

"You know."

Not letting out a sound, they pounce on the girls, quickly beginning to tickle them once they fall to the ground with surprised shouts.

Ralph whistles again before deciding to help his sister and cousin when he realizes they are no longer interested in the football game.

Soundwave looks at his younger brother with quiet expectation as laughter fills the garden.

After a couple of seconds, Dexter returns his look, though he straightens with surprise flashing on his face in an instant.

"Oh, you didn't… I meant that only _you_ know. You told me you were joining the Military the day you came to get your things, remember? You never said why… and I never asked." He explains with a shrug, turning sad eyes to the ground. "I thought you were mad at me, or something, but you managed to get two days a week off to come home and be with us, so I… I didn't think about it that much. I guessed you had your reasons." The children are but a pile of moving limbs on the lawn when they turn back at them. "Why did you leave?"

The pile moves and Chelsea falls down with a squeak while the rest continue their tickling match.

"I don't know anymore."

The blonde looks at them with a sharp smirk that is quickly mirrored by her father, and Soundwave goes inside.

Less than a minute later, he hears running water and screams, quickly followed by laughter.

He doesn't need to look through the window to know that Dexter has turned on the hose.

He goes to the kitchen and puts the now cold mug of coffee in the sink, deciding to clean it a moment later.

Midway through the familiar brushing motions, he lets his thoughts run.

Since that first morning with the so-called flu, he has become aware of lots of things that have no explanation, be it missing files or missing memories, but it's only now, after their collective 'blackout' in the Civilian Communications Center, that he's become aware of a lot more.

He knows the first year after the Black Day is badly documented, and he can understand it, as well as not remembering things that happened when he was a young child. The situation and the human brain can explain both of them.

But he couldn't find a reason for the non-existent officers or the facts missing from their minds.

Now, he has an explanation.

Now, he knows there's no memory, no physical proof of some things, because there never was one to begin with.

He remembers something forcing its way into his mind and dumping fake memories, but he also remembers being aware enough to push them aside.

He has the feeling it hasn't been the first time something like this has happened.

He now knows there are memories missing, memories that, incidentally, seem to be from just before incidents like the 'flu crisis' or the brain hemorrhaging back in the _Nemesis_.

Not this time, because this once he's pushed the fake ones away, has managed to avoid his own being overwritten.

And so, he not only remembers the attempt at reprogramming, but he also remembers suffering, death in the streets, and a government so corrupt that they tried to get even more benefits from the situation they had created with the rationing order.

He remember a badly lit office, standing behind a tall chair, as the one sitting in it laughed at the images on the screen, clips showing people battling for their lives, for their right to _feed_.

And he remembers vowing, there and then, that he would help it come to an end.

_"'Til all are one!"_

He doesn't know what to make of those memories.

Not during the food shortage, not even after the Black Day, has such a situation come to pass.

So, where are those memories coming from?

Are they his own or more fake ones?

And if they are the latter, why?

Why implant _those_ in him?

What are the ones behind this planning to get?

He turns off the faucet and steps away from the sink, the skin of his fingers wrinkled because of how long he's had them under the flow, lost in thought as he's been.

A hint of movement in the doorway catches his attention, and he finds himself looking into his younger brother's sad eyes, dry clothes on and hair slightly wet.

"I bought some chocolate powder last time. Help me make some for the kids?"

He agrees with a nod, and, some minutes later, the scent of hot chocolate warms the cold and silent room.

Once the last of the cups is on the table, Soundwave takes a step back—

And freezes.

There are nine cups.

His hands tremble a bit as he grabs the extra two, and he can feel Dexter looking at him with slight worry when he puts them away, but his stirring of the beverage doesn't allow him to make a move.

He wonders, when he grabs the spoons and makes sure there are only seven in his grasp, if this situation will repeat again.

Freddy and Allan are gone, and there's nothing he can do to change that.

No, not Freddy and Allan.

Frenzy and Rumble.

_"Creator I'm scared—"_

He shudders in the sudden coldness filling his chest, and sits down in the closest chair, rubbing his forehead.

They're gone.

And so is Starscream.

_"I'm here, I'm never leaving you—"_

"Liar." He hears metal rasping against metal and shudders, his chest and helm tingling with the memory of warm hands asking about his well-being and promising protection. "Liar." His hands turn to fists and press against his temples in an effort to vanish the phantom feelings. "_Liar._" He hears a familiar voice calling an unfamiliar name as he closes his eyes tightly, white and red splotches appearing against the black of the inside of his eyelids, and something _snaps_.

There's a flare of pain from his fist and his brain rings with the strength of his frustrated scream, but despite how much he wants to punch sense back into the scatter-processored Seeker and make his opinion of his promises loudly known, only the wall is in front of him.

His optics blur, but he forces the tears back and engages his cooling protocols.

Starscream is gone.

Worse yet, he is _lost_.

And he'll be forced to look into the familiar features, hear the familiar voice, work with the familiar man, all the while knowing his friend is no more.

He narrows his eyes menacingly, and the pressure and warmth in them doesn't feel like tears anymore.

Starscream is lost.

Which means he can be found.

He has already lost two sons.

He is _not_ losing a brother.

* * *

On the outside, he's as serious as always.

On the inside, he's almost bustling with curiosity as the meeting finishes and people start to pick up their things.

Meaning, he powers down his datapad while Military Third in Command Sanders and Sub-Commander Sanders take a last look at their notes.

He can see what Jazz meant when he said Raleigh Sanders is like John Sanders.

They can hold a full conversation between the two of them without even exchanging a word.

It's downright creepy.

In the last week, Jazz has accomplished three important things. Getting his skin to its normal dark tone, cleaning the dye from his hair, and finding out that 'Sanders' is a common surname in _Iacon_, so, while it is a coincidence that the Communications Officer and his replacement share it, it isn't strange.

Also, they've learned that having the Reeds brothers in the same room means them bickering almost every second, unless ordered to shut up, and that doesn't always work.

Which means that the Governance meeting has been chaotic, yet productive, since the Sanders don't need words to communicate.

"One of the strangest meetings I've ever been in." Jazz mutters softly as he stands up, stretching without worry of the two higher ranked officers still present.

Prowl nods as he gets to his feet.

And promptly meets Soundwave's gaze in an exchange he knows the younger Sanders can't intercept.

Without any outward sign of answering, he exits the room behind the Military Third with the Head of Spec Ops after them.

Raleigh nods to them respectfully before going his way, but the three of them stay, huddled together to ponder over one of the points of the meeting that the Communications Officer is displaying on his datapad.

None of them sees it, senses tuned to their objective.

Prowl doesn't know what Soundwave has in mind, but he knows he can trust him.

He's had the strangest feeling, ever since he woke up after their brain hemorrhaging, that the reason he remembers the out of place memories that popped up before the incident is because the Military Third did something.

He feels grateful for that, but at times he wishes he could forget.

He doesn't want to see a whole city destroyed by what he feels are brothers.

That memory does weird things to him, the feeling of betrayal so raw, so _powerful_…

It's the same he feels when he thinks about Starscream being lost to them.

He doesn't know what to think about that.

They hear the Reeds siblings before they actually exit the room, talking about what sounds like weaponry.

Soundwave grabs Steve's arm without even looking up, and the two pilots stop to stare in surprise.

"Can we have a minute of your time?" Jazz asks, smile in place, and Shawn shrugs and goes away without question.

Instead of releasing the other man, the Communications Officer walks away, tugging him to follow, with the Civilian officers falling into step easily, no hint of their confusion in their faces.

"Where are we going?" The Air Commander almost demands, tugging his arm free but following, curious.

Soundwave doesn't answer, just keeping his pace, and they fall silent.

Until they step into a smaller and empty meeting room, and the Military Third locks the door behind them.

Reeds takes a step back when three pairs of eyes fall on him, unnerved and tense.

"What? What is going on?"

"We need to talk." Prowl says, calm and cool and collected, like Steve is one of his Enforcers who has started to be trouble around Headquarters.

Not like Jazz or Phillips are, they are just trouble_makers_, but like some who couldn't stand the pressure and started to break.

Which is almost what happened to the Head of Spec Ops a week ago, but he has better things to think about now.

The other man knows his tone well, if his tensing and closing up is any indication.

"About?"

"Starscream." He doesn't move, and neither does the other Civilian officer, but he _really_ feels like staring hard at Soundwave.

What is he trying to accomplish? Calling his real name hasn't returned his memory before, so why keep trying a method that doesn't work?

"What?" The Air Commander questions, frowning, as he crosses his arms against his chest, finally free of the bulky casts on both broken limbs thanks to a small operation.

"You need to wake up, Starscream."

Both him and Jazz shudder at that, but the gesture doesn't get them the Military Second's attention.

Is it Reeds that needs to wake up, or themselves?

"Are you feeling alright? Because you're not making any sense."

And Prowl knows it may sound like that to him… and that the Air Commander has reason to be as tense as he is, since the other three are between him and the locked door.

Cornered by three known dangerous people that are acting crazy.

Yes, that doesn't sound good at all…

"Enough, Starscream. You are better than this. And you promised." The Civilian officers look at that, because Soundwave is hissing, and quite menacingly at that.

His sunglasses are blood red, almost shining with the intensity he's glaring at the tanned man, who is looking less confident and more confused by the second.

"Sanders…?"

"I've said enough, you Pit-damned Seeker! You've never gone back on your word before, are you going to start now?" Not the right words, judging by the dangerous snarl with which they are received, but the Communications Officer takes a step closer nevertheless. "After so much showing off about your processor, you're going to tell me you don't even know it enough to know what _isn't yours_?"

And now the other two are confused, as well, because what does that last sentence mean? Recognize what isn't his?

"I've had enough of your idiocy, Sanders! Get out of my way and I may forget about this!"

Soundwave stops, and despite not seeing them, they know his eyes are blown wide.

"Skywarp said he had a message from Thundercracker, that he wanted you to take care." The soft voice makes the tanned man tense as he hesitates, dark eyes moving over the three of them. "But you've given up. You've fallen and aren't getting up, aren't even _trying_. Frag it all, Starscream, you've never bowed to anyone, you've never yielded, are you really going to let them win?"

Prowl and Jazz exchange a look, both equally surprised about that 'them' they don't know about.

"I'm not letting anyone win." The Civilian officers look back at the determined Air Commander, but it isn't Starscream glaring back. "So get out of my way."

Soundwave deflates just before tensing again, and the other two take a step back at the thrumming that's starting to fill the room.

The Commander-in-Chief vaguely remembers it from the Communications Center but, unlike then, he finds himself surprised when he realizes it is the man_ himself_ it is coming out of.

Reeds gasps and hunches into himself, hands grabbing at his temples.

The Enforcers move further away as the Military Second starts to shake and whimper and moan in pain.

It has to be Soundwave, but he is just standing there, face as emotionless as a mask, the thrumming growing to a soundless booming that echoes in their bones.

His visor shines a pale red.

The whimpering grows louder as the Air Commander tries to stumble away, hands almost white with the pressure with which he's holding his head, eyes closed tight enough that a couple of tears slip down his cheeks.

"S—Stop it—Please, stop—_Stop—_"

Soundwave doesn't answer, doesn't even move, and Reeds tenses more forcefully, his shaking increasing.

Jazz looks at the Civilian Second with worry and slight fear, the same emotions he's trying to keep at bay, but he has no answers for him.

The booming becomes subsonic, and Prowl finds himself almost against the wall as his innards start to tremble like jelly.

"En—Enough—_Enough_! Get out of my processor or I'm taking you for a free fall!"

The loss of the soundless noise is so sudden that it's almost like gravity itself had vanished.

To Prowl, it comes back when he slides down the wall.

Soundwave's vis—_sunglasses_ are still shining red, though a darker shade, almost as if he's analyzing the still trembling man leaning against the table.

The Air Commander opens his eyes to glare back, and Steve Reeds is no more.

Red eyes blazing, Starscream straightens, still glaring at the other Military officer.

Prowl stands slowly, hearing Jazz's soft crowing of victory from where he's still half-sprawled on the floor, but the sound grows distant, as if he was miles away…

Clad in his red and white uniform, dark skin clearly scarred on one side of his face, the blue on hands and boots as bright as the rest of colors, and—

—_he manages to catch a glint of the attackers through the smoke—_

—the glowing red eyes that—

—_had helped each other as if they were of the same frame-type—_

—are now burning—

—_their city, obliterated its inhabitants—_

—leaving him feeling empty when they land on his blue ones and—

—_what he'd thought was a black hole had just revealed itself a supernova—_

—burning through his chest almost as much as the blood coating his knuckles, and he pulls his fist back again—

"What the frag are you _doing_?!"

Jazz.

Jazz is the one holding him back, the one pulling him away from where he had that _traitor_ pinned against the table, the one stopping him from taking what's his, taking his vengeance for—

"—destroyed _everything_! He killed them _all_!"

And Soundwave is now between them, almost completely hiding the gobsmacked mech with the bleeding olfactory sensors and mouth, and he hopes he's bitten that poisonous glossa off when he punched him.

"The Pit?! What are you talking about?!"

"_Praxus_!"

All air vanishes from the room, taking his energy with it, and he would have fallen on his face if Jazz hadn't been holding him.

There's no silence between them.

There's lack of noise.

No voices, no breathing, no beating hearts to be heard.

"Praxus is burning."

Except for his own.

And the groaning of metal.

And the _crackling of fire._

_And the pinging in his comm that would not _stop_, can't they see he's in shock, that his city, his home, has been destroyed by their presumed lost brothers?_

_No, they can't, because they aren't here, in the middle of the ruins, amidst the wreckage, and none of them cared about their brothers, they didn't even try to hide their rejoicing when—_

"Vos is burning."

Prowl's gaze snaps into focus, away from his memories of destruction, to meet equally devastated red optics.

Questions start to fill his processor, questions that have no reason to be, but they're flowing through his lips before he can even think about their meaning.

"Why did you join them?"

Starscream doesn't answer, but the question is turned back on him.

And his chest freezes, so slowly that he can feel every crackle of the ice forming over tissue, every little cell expanding as the water in it turns solid—

"_They_ did it?" He doesn't know who 'they' are, but neither does he need his question answered.

He already knows that _they_ did it.

"Guys…?"

He looks up at Jazz, who is worried and searching into his eyes, and knows Starscream's being analyzed as intently by Soundwave.

"They set us up." Blue meets red and both start to glow harsher as both Seconds in Command realize that. "They took all they wanted and then set us up. And they _won_." Hands on his shoulders ground the Commander-in-Chief, but do nothing to diffuse his anger.

"Then don't let them win again." Soundwave is as cool and collected as before, and _that_ calms him down.

He doesn't look at Starscream, instead lowering his gaze—until he finds the handkerchief in a pocket of his jacket.

Then, as he offers it to the Air Commander, their optics meet, and he knows they agree on this.

As they did long ago, when they decided enough death was enough and things had to change.

Before 'they' extinguished a star and the shock wave from its death destroyed his city.

They only have one city now, one people united under a sky-less sky.

And they won't fail them this time.

"Welcome back."

"Good to be back. Though if there's a next time, a tap on the shoulder would be preferable to a punch to the face." He snorts at Starscream's dry humor, and the mech gives him a crooked smirk from behind the handkerchief against bleeding nose and split lip. "And Soundwave, next time you get into my processor, I'll make sure you enjoy a nice view of the clouds as you fall through them." Jazz breaks out laughing before hanging on the Civilian Second and Military Third's shoulders, bringing the four of them closer.

"Alright, new rule. From now on, we'll be together. No more slipping away or closing off because of a theory. Whether we rise or fall, we go together. Got it?" The Head of Spec Ops asks, wild smile on his face and apologies in his eyes as he looks at the Commander-in-Chief.

"'Til all are one." Three voices answer in unison, and a fourth joins them. "'Til all are one."

* * *

**AN:** And, at long last, there's a happy ending for a chapter! Cheers!

I hope this clears all POVs of the previous chapter's first half. If not, don't hesitate to ask, I'll answer :)

Also, I'm using a mix of G1 and IDW as the backstory, hope they're recognizable...

**Angel Heart:** To your review to Chapter 11 (A Date with the Past): About the code, I'm sure you can guess Jazz made it on the spot, but Prowl is cool like that, so it was a piece of cake for him to decipher it ;)

Hyde is one of those characters whose fate was determined ever before I got to actually write it, poor guy. I'm glad he got to do his part and help with the backstory, and I hope the thing with the Field Commander was understandable, I didn't know how to put it any other way. And Jerry was supposed to be cute, so I'm glad you think he is so :)

I don't write enough 'normal' stuff, and it was about time to show some, so I decided to go with the radio thing, which is a normal thing for me, as I tend to write while listening to it, and it's one of the things that always cheers me up, because no matter what happens or how you feel, you know you'll always have those voice joking or welcoming you.

We have really similar headcanons, which is great, 'cause you get things really quickly :D Mine about the forehead-to-forehead is like yours, with the exception that it means they may not be of equal processor, but that it doesn't mean they won't stay by each others' side. It's more like a reassurance that no matter the differences, they will stay together, while also letting the other know that none of them care about what the other's social status/frame type is (that ties in with some of my cultural HC).

Shawn Reeds is a lot like Starscream in many ways. He's boisterous, doesn't fear letting his opinion known and can come across as insuferable a lot of times. But, on the other hand, he's not a complete ass nor an insensitive jerk, which is what I tried to show with that sentence in Chapter 12 about Will waiting outside Med Bay with 'the Civilian Government Commander, Jazz Smith, Jerry Lee, and a guy so similar to Steve that it gave him goosebumps'.

And reality bending at the end of the chapter... *insert evil laughter* The snowball has started rolling *evil grin*

To your review to Chapter 12 (Twist): Your thoughts about what 'world/setting' the normal and italized text showed were right, though not all parts were from the same POV. I hope this chapter helped clear who was living/reliving every thing. And yeah, Jazz is not Head of Spec Ops for anything, and if you'd better not mess up with him, least of all if he's pissed (I dropped a hint in the last of 'Jazz's parts' about him seeing purple, which I hope helped explain him flying off the handle, but I'm not sure if it was understood...).

Well, the cult didn't manage to do anything worse, thanks to Jazz, but things aren't over yet *insert evil grin*.

And you're welcome! I've wanted to post an extra update for a couple of weeks now, but I was never far enough in the number of written chapters to make sure it wouldn't come back to bite me in the rear, so I had to wait. But now, I've done it! I feel so proud...

Thanks for everything and I hope this chapter helped answer/clear some questions :) Read you again next week!


	14. Apokalypsis

Starscream can almost feel the smugness before the head of the Military Science Division enters the bridge, and a quick look tells him Soundwave has felt it too.

Garret O'Hara, better known as 'Hook', is one of the best engineers the _Ark_ has ever seen, and his perfectionist nature only adds to that.

The worst is that he knows it, and so has an attitude bigger than his list of achievements, which is to say a lot.

Nevertheless, the man has won his post through hard work, so the least they can do is try to keep their scowls to a minimum when he saunters inside like he owns the whole _Nemesis_.

Eric and Tom O'Hara, his younger brothers and fellow scientists, follow him, as usual, though, this time, they stand straighter, prouder, than the others.

They must have accomplished something _big_.

"Well?" Hook just grins wider at Commander Storm's single word, stepping closer to where they are standing around the 3D hologram of the Protectodome.

The 3D technology is extremely useful, though it's used mostly in blueprints and engineering, instead of applying it to the battle system.

Sure, Soundwave always has a smaller 3D projection of the battlefield when in combat, but the main screen is a 2D rendition of it, mostly because having a big enough 3D hologram for Storm to do his job would be non-practical, and because the readings from their scans aren't all that compatible with the 3D system in a practical sense.

After all, both their crafts and the Black Beasts are nothing more than dots to them.

Nevertheless, to organize the Protectodome's maintenance, it works more than good enough, allowing them to check all layers of their up-to-date scans to decide which areas should be taken care of first, and the resources needed.

Which is why the three highest ranking officers of the _Nemesis_ are working with Raleigh Sanders and Shawn Reeds, since the Communications Sub-Commander is in charge of the data _Iacon_ sent for the process, and his _dear_ little brother would be the main overseer of the outer shield maintenance.

He almost smiles at the thought of the cocky and insufferable pilot essentially _babysitting_ the drones.

But, Hook is here, so he refrains from letting his thoughts pull him away from the situation and turns his whole attention to the O'Hara brothers.

Unwilling as he is to admit it out loud, they are amazing scientists, and he has enjoyed the few times he's had the chance to work with them.

The three of them are perfectionists, with Hook taking it to the extreme, which is the reason they are at the top of the Military Science Division, Garret as Head of Engineering, both of structures and Cybertronian, Eric as Head of Chemotechnology, which ties in with Energy and Weapons Development, and Tom as Head of Weapons Development himself.

So, if all three of them look as smug as they do, it must be worth it.

Raleigh, quiet, sometimes unnerving, but overall easy to work with, looks at the brothers with his usual unseen curiosity, while Shawn, boisterous, God-loving and annoying, turns a bored look on them.

"We finished one of our pet projects, and thought you'd like to see the results." Starscream perks at that, and Soundwave's already attentive attitude turns downright demanding.

"I wasn't aware you had a 'pet project'." Storm answers calmly, an eyebrow arced in a questioning manner, and Hook's sultry smile widens almost menacingly.

"That would be because this project is one that was deemed unfeasible some time ago." Snarling silently in impatience, the Supreme Commander gestures to the projector and, the tiniest bit subdued by the menacing display, the scientist steps forward and pulls aside the Protectodome projection. "Gentlemen, let me introduce the newest addition to the _Ark_ Military Force." A portable data device is plugged in a free port, and blueprints flash to life, quickly rearranging into familiar yet unknown shapes.

Wide-eyed, they can't do nothing but stare in awe at the five Cybertronian slowly reassembling into an enormous humanoid shape.

A Combiner.

A _mixed_ Combiner, formed by air and ground crafts assembling flawlessly into the strongest kind of Cybertronian to ever exist.

But, most important of all, _Hook_ has brought them this, which means it isn't just the incredible amount of almost impossibly detailed blueprints and weapons and motion programming, but that it _is already built_, because the O'Hara never do things halfway.

"We call him… Bruticus."

Starscream jolts, remembering the weightless pressure of an almost non-existent atmosphere, a star-filled sky blocked by _an enormous shape that threatens to destroy everything, but it's alright, he has a plan, and it's working, so he'll be able to stop it and—_

Hook touches something and the humanoid Combiner disassembles into the individual Cybertronian, the change pulling him out of his mind.

He exchanges a look with Soundwave, and the tightness of the Third's jaw tells him he's seen something too.

"And you say it's ready for field testing?" Storm asks, regaining their attention, and the oldest O'Hara puffs his chest out proudly.

"I would go so far as to say it doesn't _need_ field testing." His brothers exchange a long-suffering look, but it's mostly amusement, which means they are with Hook in this.

"What about the team?" Starscream asks, because one of the major faults of Combiners is finding the people to man them, something easier said than done.

A _lot_ easier.

It's so hard to find a team, in fact, that only two other successful Combiners have been registered to date: the Aerial Superion, and the Ground-based Menasor.

Superion fell on the Black Day, and Menasor is stationed in _Iacon_, although out of service due to problems in the design that haven't yet been solved.

So a new Combiner, a functioning one…

Given the _Ark_'s situation, it would be a _blessing_.

"Already taken care of." Hook fiddles a bit more with the projector, taking away Bruticus' blueprints and pulling up files. "Five man team under the command of Ed Law."

Soundwave tenses so suddenly that his backbone should have snapped.

Starscream's startled 'what?!' is so shrill that the projector flickers.

But Storm's glinting eyes and too wide triumphant smile is the most disturbing reaction.

"You got Law's team in charge of a Combiner?" The Supreme Commander asks almost giddily, like a child who has been let loose in a candy shop.

The Second and Third in Command take a step away from the man, and their Sub-Commanders follow their lead with slightly worried expressions.

Edward 'Ed' Law is a brilliant strategist and an efficient officer, effectively manning his team of less reliable though equally good in their areas of expertise men, though, all in all, they have way too long expedients to be the first Starscream would trust with a Combiner.

Raoul Johnson, a brawler that is more often than not in the brig from instigating and participating in fights, both in and out of the _Nemesis_.

Hank Shore, a bad team player with an ego problem almost as big as Hook's, but with a tendency to let it grow to violence.

Finnegan 'Finn' Donnell, a con man, smuggler and cheater that would sell even to the Black Beasts if they had money to pay with.

Conner Nielsen, someone who has managed to get past Shepherd's psych checks clear, yet acts as a mass murderer from a B-rated horror movie, sans chainsaw and hockey mask.

Starscream manages with Shore and Nielsen, who are Tetrajet pilots, because he is the _best_ Air Commander _ever_, but it's when Law takes charge of his team of misfits that they become a force to be reckoned.

So, perhaps Hook has it right in giving them charge of the Combiner.

"When can they be ready for a field test?"

"When do you want them ready?" The oldest O'Hara returns, and Storm's already deadly smirk widens.

"An hour. Reeds, you two are going with them." And Starscream can only groan as Shawn squeaks in protest, because he should have _known_ this was going to happen.

"I am to go with him? I can take care of this mission on my own!" His younger brother protests, even as the Air Commander rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.

An hour isn't as much as he would have wanted, and he wants to make sure to talk with Law before they find themselves dancing outside, because that's what a field test is.

"Just mute it and get ready." He growls, glaring over his shoulder in time to see the Supreme Commander dismiss the other pilot, who stomps after him.

"I am no machine to go 'muting it', so stop talking to me like that."

"No, of course you aren't. A machine is easier to deal with." But he has to fight to keep a shudder in nevertheless, a mix of rage and unease in the gesture, for the expression has come up without thought, but he isn't a machine either.

He tunes out Shawn's grumbles all the way down to the lockers where, thankfully for his waning patience, he goes silent as they change into their flight uniforms.

As they are putting on the last pieces, Law's team, with the man himself on the lead, come inside.

"I guess congratulations are in order." He greets them with, leaning against the wall near the entrance as Shawn walks away without a second look.

"For having to be stuck with this bunch of walking disasters more than usual?" Law returns with a scowl and a snort, and Starscream smirks.

"I've seen Bruticus's schematics. The Black Beasts won't have a chance against it."

"Him." The Air Commander blinks at the five voices and the same amount of pairs of eyes staring at him seriously.

"Not it, _him_." Donnell adds, the most easy-going of the group, though one of the less trustworthy, as he shrugs on the last piece of his beige and purple uniform.

"The Black Beasts won't have a chance against him." He corrects, and he feels amusement grow as Shore and Nielsen nod, satisfied at his words. "Been briefed yet?"

"Commander Storm said he wants to check speed, firepower and strength, first individually and then combined." Law answers calmly, waiting until Johnson has managed to put on his boots before leading them outside, Starscream by his side.

The look the new Combiner leader gives him is calculating, but mostly surprised.

They have always been in good terms, but never close enough for the Second in Command to be as relaxed as he is now, more so because the rest of the team is around.

Despite their curiosity, none of the others speak.

When they get to the docks, they see Shawn softly crooning as he wipes an invisible spot on his Tetrajet's black fuselage, and the Air Commander doesn't stop his deadpanned look nor reprimands the snickers coming from behind him.

"That guy loves his craft way too much." Nielsen comments with soft laughter, and, even though Starscream has to agree with him, he also knows his little brother has good reason for his 'loving'.

_Iacon_ outdid themselves with that Tetrajet, with the special alloy that makes its twice thick outer armor able to irradiate the extra output of its nuclear power core.

Unfortunately, they haven't been able to recreate that feat.

Shawn's craft is a blazing sun when fully powered, able to burn the Black Beasts when in close enough proximity, the radiation not affected by the Black Plague.

If it wasn't for the fact that the soil under the Protectodome, unaffected by the epidemic, would be contaminated, they would have bombed the outside world with nuclear bombs centuries ago.

Though the radioactive Tetrajet has a really big weakness that, so far, hasn't been found a solution to. Due to the nature of its advantage, any crack in its fuselage, even the smallest, negates the ability to irradiate in answer to safety protocols. The fuel lines and wires may be specially designed, but not the rest of the craft, so any leak would mean Shawn's slow and painful death, and the loss of the dangerous Cybertronian.

Fortunately, its very radioactive nature makes it hard for Black Beasts to stay close to it long enough to deliver a damaging blow.

"Start check up procedures. Commander Storm will kick us out as soon as he knows we're all here." He orders, shaking the worst case scenarios out of his mind as he walks to his own Tetrajet.

Or what should be.

He doesn't recognize her anymore.

After the attack that put him out of commission, seemingly ages ago, the cockpit area needed to be rebuilt.

But it seems they used the chance to upgrade her.

It isn't that obvious, some would say she looks just the same… but, if nothing else, Starscream knows his own Tetrajet.

A different wing-joint. A new model of tail. Completely new cannons. A slightly taller body. A more narrow cockpit.

Pit, even the standard black color seems different.

He can only hope he still knows how to steer her.

… Perhaps that's why Storm has sent him on this field test, and why Shawn is there as well, to supervise both him and the new Combiner.

Steeling himself, the Air Commander steps up the metallic ramp and sits inside the cockpit, closing it automatically and starting the check up procedures.

So far, so good.

The controls haven't been touched more than to bring them slightly closer due to the narrowing of the front, but he quickly gets used to it with the familiar checks.

The seat seems comfier. He'd have to thank Hook for that.

And then, as expected, the comm line with the bridge opens with an almost unheard crackle of static and Sanders' voice comes in, asking about—

Sanders' voice… Sanders…

He shakes his head so harshly that the world seems to swirl around him, a startled gasp escaping through his lips.

No, not Sanders, Soundwave, _Soundwave_.

He hisses softly, rubbing his pounding head, and feeling grateful when the headache dims and leaves alone the memories he knows, deep in his chest, are right.

"_Air Commander? Everything alright there?_" Storm asks, and he curses silently when he realizes they've heard him.

"They got this even more cramped than before!" He whines instead, and he can almost see the Supreme Commander rolling his eyes as he accepts his excuse.

"_Spare me your childish antics. You'll answer to 'Air Commander' on this run. Shawn Reeds, you answer to 'Reeds'._"

"_Roger that, Sir._" His brother's voice answers almost immediately and, after checking that Law's team is also ready, they are given the order to take off.

Which means turning on the engines and waiting until they are outside.

When he finally gets airborne, Starscream barely manages to keep a gasp in.

It—That—Everything—It feels so _overwhelming_.

He can feel the purring of his engines, every small twist of his wings, how the breeze rushes over his fuselage, his cannons relocating when he angles sideways—

He feels _alive_.

"_Alright, Air Commander and Reeds, recognition flight until half distance._" Storm orders and he _laughs_ in answer.

He hears his title called again, but he's already sweeping over the area, flying so low he can feel the ground under his belly and the cloud of dust caressing his tail, maneuvering so precisely to avoid the hills and rocks and other structures showing up on his sensors that he knows his trajectory is a straight line on the screen in the bridge.

He turns in a perfect 90º angle when he reaches the invisible line that marks the half of the scanners range, not slowing in the slightest, feeling the wind now play against him as it blows perpendicularly to him, but it doesn't move him even the smallest micron.

On the comm, Storm is giving orders to the Combiner, to see if everything is as it should and, in the background, Hook is ranting angrily at his expertise in the building of the Cybertronian being questioned.

"_Enjoying yourself, Air Commander?_"

Soundwave.

And if the feeling in his chest is to be believed, the Communications Officer is smiling.

"Like never before. You don't know how good it is to feel the wind on my wings after so long of being cooped up."

To anyone else, it would have sounded like an exaggeration, because _everybody_ knows you can't feel the outside world inside a Cybertronian.

Soundwave just pushes some more warmth back to him with an even bigger smile.

And then, they both freeze, which means Starscream has stopped playing with the hills and is now maneuvering with Shawn behind his right wing, almost in Wing formation.

"Did I feel what I just…"

"_I… I felt it too…_" The Military Third whispers back.

After a couple more seconds of shock, the Air Commander manages to snap out of it.

"We need to get to the bottom of this." And Soundwave doesn't answer, closing the private comm line instead, but he feels his determination too.

"_Combine._" Starscream steers them around, Shawn still following, and he manages to almost virtually see, as much as scans, radar and lidar allow, how the five Cybertronian do, indeed, combine.

The resulting craft is so big that he glides around his 'head' in a wide arc, sensors almost completely blue.

He has the feeling that he would be able to land his Tetrajet on one of Bruticus' shoulders with ease.

As tempting as the thought is, he doesn't try it, instead moving away to let Storm's orders be carried without impediment.

The Combiner's movements are slow, but strangely graceful, almost flowing, and he can't help his low whistling of appreciation.

"You have outdone yourselves with him, Science Division. My most sincere congratulations." He feels Soundwave's amusement answering him, and can almost see the O'Hara brothers straightening proudly at the praise. "Take a picture of them."

"_The heck are you babbling about now, Air Commander?_" Storm demands, but he just snickers when he feels a hint a mischievousness mix with the amusement still radiating from the Communications Officer.

"Oh, just lost in thought, nothing to—"

Amusement turns to fear and mischievousness to worry, and he knows what's going on before he can even hear the confirmation, his cannons already online even though there are no targets in sight.

"_Incoming!_"

When the three Aerial Black Beasts go past the half distance line, they are welcomed by his charged blasts, Shawn's joining as soon as he's over his surprise—

His tail is set _ablaze_.

He yowls in pain, quickly pulling away in a burst of speed that gets him through the dispersing Aerials and further from his younger brother's craft, its irradiating defense having come online as soon as the targets appeared in his scans.

"Watch that radioactive flare of yours!" He shrieks through comm, ignoring Storm's cussing on the background.

He whirls around and shoots one of the Black Beasts from the sky—

And another rushes to him.

_"Got you!"_

_"You're ours now."_

"Not this time!"

He feels warmth skim over his belly as he turns over himself, the Aerial moving along him as it goes through where he'd been, and shoots it even before he rights himself.

All fear is left behind with the falling Black Beast.

"_Ground support arriving at quarter distance, Air support on site!_" Storm shouts, but he already has his fellow Tetrajets on his scans, so it takes only a second for Soundwave to send a databurst detailing the Black Beasts' positions for him to arrange his troops.

In that second, the last Aerial goes past him—

Right into Bruticus' fist.

The red dot is out even before the Combiner completely closes his fist, and Nielsen and Johnson's cheering is loud enough in the comm for him to have known what the Black Beast's fate was even without his scans.

"_One down for the count! How many more do you bet we can take? Come on, I say five!_" Starscream laughs loudly at Donnell's voice, almost drowning the Supreme Commander's bellowed order to focus.

"_I say seven!_" Nielsen joins in, cackling madly, as Bruticus shoots an approaching Point Heavy out of scan range. "_No, eight!_"

"_The one who gets closest to the end result doesn't have to wax his Cybertronian!_"

"_No one's waxing their Cybertronian._" Law groans, though there's too much amusement in his voice to believe he's really reprimanding Donnell. "_The losers will be cleaning the mess hall._"

Bets start to fly after that, and the number of Black Beasts Bruticus has taken down when they fall silent is up to five.

Starscream can't wipe the smile off his face, and he feels Soundwave is barely keeping his hidden, too.

His chest freezes painfully, and he barely manages to barrel roll away from empty air—

There's a red dot on his tail.

It wasn't there less than a second before.

Shaking in fear and pain, he flies out of its range—

And it's suddenly in front of him.

"The Pit?!" He shrieks, avoiding colliding with it by plummeting suddenly to the ground.

The Aerial follows—and he pulls up suddenly, ready to shoot it into oblivion.

A shock wave throws him off course, gyros spinning madly for some nanokliks before he manages to right himself, but the Black Beast is no longer in sight.

It's behind him, with a slightly bigger and slower one, flying perfectly in tandem as they shoot at him.

He rolls away, the pain in his chest growing to the point his sight begins to blur.

"_Air Commander, turn around! You're getting away from the Protectodome!_"

His breathing hitches and he quickly follows the order.

The Aerials fan to the sides, trying to avoid him, and he slips under them, rolling on himself to be able to face them and gift them with a couple of well-placed sh—

His scans go crazy, red invading each and every screen, and he hurriedly pulls away from the pressure trying to pluck him from the sky, from the loud roaring that is almost deafening, from the—

His scans are working again, but he doesn't believe them.

"_Is that…_"

"_God help us, that's impossible!_"

"_Someone please tell me this is all a simulation, please, _please_…_"

But it isn't.

It isn't impossible, because it's right there, in front of him.

It isn't a simulation, because he is flying, and he doesn't fly in simulations.

And it isn't a dream, because every beat of his heart is a frozen stab to his lungs, his brain, his muscles…

"_Do you have confirmation on what that thing is?_" Storm's voice should have been a roar, but it sounds meek and weak, and he thinks it may be trembling a bit with fear.

Soundwave isn't shaking, but the Second in Command can feel his horror as clearly as his own.

"_C-Confirmed, Sir. It's a Combiner-sized Aerial Black Beast._"

* * *

**AN:** Title based on the book of the _New Testament_ called _the Apocalypse_. I used the original Greek word, that means 'unveiling' or 'revelation'.

More characters! I finally managed to get them in the spotlight to introduce them. Guesses as to their identities? I've tried real heard to get them accurate, but, slag, they're harder to write than I thought... Also, more technobabble, though I hope it was understandable.

Now, warning: This is going to be a bumpy ride. So, please keep all limbs inside and use the seatbelts. Oh, and don't forget to keep the oxygen mask and parachute handy. Welcome... to the beginning of the end.

**Angel Heart:** Hello to you too! I needed to add some nice-ness, since, as you've read, things are going to get nasty from now on... And I also had to add that tidbit with the twins, I can't believe I did that to them... Glad it kept you people interested!:D

You explained the understanding with only looks really well, but I hope this chapter shows there was a bit more that got explained in the last Geek Note ;)

Praxus and Vos are, to me, where the war really started, and they are turning points to a lot of reasons, and not only for Vosians and Praxians, but for Cybertron as a whole (as seen in Prowl's POV in chapter 12: _And he finds himself worrying, over and over again, about the same topic he's been trying to avoid, about the extinction of a smaller yet not less brighter star on the face of their own planet._). Plus, they are really important in my HC about Cybertron, Cybertronian and, consequently, the war, so I'm really glad the reactions and the whole 'punch in the face welcoming' looked good.

The 'them' issue is really complex, since there are quite a different 'they', according to the situation. Per example, Soundwave's 'them' refers to the voices, but Starscream and Prowl's are thinking about those behind the attacks to their city-states, which, in turn, are two different kind of 'they', too.

And yes, Starscream's back! Though, one has to wonder if that's a good thing, after what I just unleashed... But, hey, didn't you say you wanted evil to pop back up again? Be careful what you wish for ;)


	15. The White Horse

The Black Beast is so big that, instead of showing as a red dot, it has a vaguely humanoid appearance.

Much like Bruticus.

In fact, they're about the same size, though the—the enemy Combiner-sized _monster_ is airborne.

"_Alright! Bring it on!_" Soundwave startles at Johnson's war cry, but it has the effect of kicking him back into gear.

And what he sees isn't exactly nice.

Storm, also startled out of his reverie, sees it too, and quickly gets to set things right.

"Reeds, there are two Aerials on the Air Commander's tail!"

"_I'll send them back to Hell so burnt that its fires will feel cold to them!_" Shawn answers easily, his signal moving to intercept Starscream's followers.

When Bruticus and the Combiner-sized Black Beast clash, the whole _Nemesis_ seems to shake.

"_Hey, where did that—_"

"_Get away from here, you fool!_"

The screech makes the Communications Officer wince, but the sight of an Aerial suddenly appearing behind Reeds is enough to clear away any pain he might feel.

Fortunately for him, one of their Ground troops is close enough to take it off his tail, the red dot vanishing—

Only for a second one to suddenly appear tailing Starscream, who is pulling maneuvers that should have rid him of any Black Beasts ages ago, but that don't shake the two after him.

The Combiner-sized one takes flight to avoid Bruticus' swipe, and Law curses loudly through the comm.

"_Lets rip its wings off!_" Nielsen roars with a hint of laughter.

"_Care to tell where its wings are, _genius_?!_" Donnell screeches, panicked, as the Black Beast kicks them back.

"_Shawn, go for its head!_" Starscream orders, and the younger Reeds quickly zooms to the giant monster—

That hurriedly steps away, taking flight once more to avoid a second pass from the radioactive Tetrajet.

"_Feel the light of God, Demon!_"

"_Bruticus! Catch!_" The Combiner turns, throwing its hands up—

And slamming one of the Black Beasts tailing the Second in Command out of the scanners' range.

A couple of seconds later, when the surrounding scans find no sign of it and it doesn't pop into existence again, Soundwave lets out a sigh of relief.

"Alright, men! Ground Units, target the Ground-based Black Beasts. Air Commander, get rid of that pest. Reeds and Bruticus, concentrate on the Air Giant." Storm orders, receiving acknowledgment as soon as his orders are out. "Lets get rid of them and call it a day!"

But then, a new Aerial enters the screen, and quickly flies up to the radioactive Tetrajet without hesitation.

"_What the—Get away!_" Shawn Reeds screams, swerving brusquely to avoid the collision—

The Air Giant swats him away like a fly.

Storm roars and Soundwave's breath hitches in his throat.

Starscream flies in a collision course with his brother, but turns away the last instant—

And Shawn's doubly reinforced craft slams into the Black Beast tailing the Air Commander, throwing it away and stopping his mad flight long enough to regain control of his Tetrajet.

"_Nice save, brother, but I'm afraid that didn't repair my cracked fuselage._" The younger Reeds winces, the blueprint next to his signal showing a wing and part of the tail bright red.

"_Be thankful it isn't cracked bones, _those_ are harder to fix._" The Second in Command answers, voice slightly shrilly, as he circles to engage the Air Giant grappling with Bruticus.

"Reeds, back to base. Air Commander, what are you _doing_?" Storm asks, confused and annoyed, as the Sub-Commander grudgingly obeys his order, the rest of troops on site taking care of the normal-sized Black Beasts.

Instead of answering, Starscream flies over the Combiner's shoulder—

And the gargantuan monster flies away from him.

"_I'm going for the joints, what else?_"

"_We're right behind you, Air Commander._" Law chirps in almost immediately, as much as a man like him can _chirp_.

When Bruticus slams into the Air Giant, the Combiner's hands go for the neck.

"They won't be able to go for _their_ joints, will they?" The Supreme Commander asks, looking at Hook over his shoulder, and the proud-looking engineer just straightens.

"Already taken care of it. All joints are reinforced and protected, so there's no way they can get to them."

"Good. Get all information possible on the Air Giant, Sanders. We'll send a copy to _Iacon_ once we've dealt with it, detailing the procedure to bring them down." Storm adds, calmer, as he returns his attention to the screen.

The enormous Black Beast seems well and truly trapped, at the mercy of—

Bruticus is thrown back, its pilots shouting in pain and the head glowing red, and the Air Giant pounces on it, forcing it to step further away, closer to the Protectodome—

"Reeds! Do _something_!"

"_I'm trying!_"

But there's an Aerial tailing the Air Commander, and Bruticus is almost over the shield—

The collision is enough to send them all to the ground, lights and screens flickering madly, his 3D projection deactivating, alarms bellowing all inside the _Nemesis—_

Soundwave gets to his knees with Raleigh's help, the younger man looking terrified and clutching the Third in Command almost too tightly as they stare at the screen, covering their heads when metal planks fall from the ceiling—

The Aerial tailing Starscream rushes to the fallen Bruticus leaning against the Protectodome, the Air Giant quickly flying away, and—

* * *

Jazz pouts childishly, but Prowl's glare doesn't soften, a hand still extended handing him the datapad he brought in barely an hour ago.

"But _Boooooooss_…"

"No whining."

"Boss, _pleeeeeeaaase_…"

"No pleading." A hand raises when he opens his mouth once more. "And no begging. Grab the datapad, delete that mockery of report, and write it again."

"But it's written right, why do I have to do it again?"

"Perhaps because it _isn't_ written right? You know the rules, follow them."

"What are rules for if not for breaking them?" The green-eyed glare intensifies, and Jazz flops into one of the chairs in defeat. "Aw, c'mon, Prowler. You know what I mean when you read it, right? So, why can't it stay like that?"

"Because '_I don't feel like writing the details, go read Phillips' report_' isn't exactly correct." He snickers a bit at the quote, receiving a more heated glare in answer.

Prowl must be _really_ annoyed by that line, if he knows it by heart already.

"You didn't think it 'correct' when I handed a copy of Phillips' report with my name signed instead of his, you don't think it 'correct' when I relate to Phillips' report… What is 'correct' then?"

"You writing your _own_ report." The Commander-in-Chief answers easily, still handing over the pad.

Grudgingly, and knowing that if he tries to lengthen the joke it won't be funny anymore, he accepts it and stands up, ready to go grab the _real_ report he did before handing the first fake, dutifully waiting on top of his desk.

"Gee, you need to learn to relax, Boss. I swear, the day you break the rules will be the day the Protectodome falls on top of our heads."

Next he knows, he's sprawled on the ground, with a chair on top of him and plaster from the ceiling raining down on him.

Ears ringing, Jazz curls further and covers his head with his arms, body trembling in fear and confusion.

When the floor stops shaking and his hearing clears, he gets tremulously to his feet and quickly finds a kneeling and dirtied Prowl's gaze.

"Please tell me you followed all the rules."

Since it is a rhetorical non-question, they hurry to the cracked window—and freeze.

Metallic parts are falling from the sky—from the Protectodome's inner shield.

"No… Not another Black Day, Primus, please, _no_…"

Not hindered by memories, and masterfully pushing his fear away, Jazz grabs Prowl's shoulders and _shakes_ him.

"Snap out of it, Prowler! We've got work to do!"

When the man's green eyes focus, he releases him and rushes out the door, into the panic-filled floor.

"Put yourselves together, bots!" He shouts, all eyes falling on him almost immediately. "We've been through enough evacuation simulations to be able to run them while asleep! So get yourselves in gear and put the pedal to the metal!"

Phillips is the first to salute and run outside, his frantic panicking pushed aside in the face of duty.

The rest quickly follow.

"Alright, Prowl, lets get to—" He mutes when he whirls around, the Second in Command's terror clearly seen in his wide eyes and pale face as he pulls the phone away from his ear and clicks some more keys.

When Jazz's own phone rings, Prowl curses loud enough to make the TIC jump back in fear, more so when he realizes the Commander-in-Chief is the one who has called him.

"What the Pit, Prowler?!"

"My phone's working, but I can't contact the _Nemesis_."

The silence is broken by another earth-shaking tremor, more metallic pieces falling down to the panic-filled streets, and the Enforcers can't do more than grimace before rushing out of the building.

* * *

Alarms are blaring loudly and the lights are flickering so badly that all he sees are splotches of light, but Will's priority is to put out the fire.

Once that is taken care of, all three scientists look dumbly up at the cracked and falling ceiling, and the hanging speaker on the corner.

"—_ode Black! I repeat, engage Evacuation Protocols, Code Black!_"

"That means high level damage to the inner shield." Percy whispers, pale as death, while Jack starts to curse and rushes to make sure everything potentially damaging is properly sealed, as per protocol.

"We've got to get out of here before something flattens the building!" The brown-haired man exclaims, and the other two rush to help before opening the door to the corridor.

Once outside, Will realizes for the first time that the voice through the speakers is Dexter's.

"What about him?!" He shouts to his already departing companions, gesturing towards the ceiling.

"He has his own orders, like each of the different Divisions." Percy answers, calmer, but the blond man hesitates.

"So we're just going to leave him?"

"We need to get to the bunkers, Will. What if this is nothing serious?"

"And what if it is?"

"Will—"

"No. I'm not leaving Dexter."

And without waiting for an answer, the taller man turns around and rushes to the Communications Center, avoiding the panicked people hurrying to the exit.

He can't blame Percy and Jack, they're just following protocol, obeying orders, but Dexter's a friend.

He doesn't want to think about Steve, not with what is going on right now, so he turns his attention to worries he _can_ find a solution to.

And getting the younger Sanders out is one of them, now that the labs have been cleared.

He has to force the door open, but he knows he has made the right decision when he manages to step inside.

Part of the ceiling has caved in, a broken table and chairs littering the ground, and a shaking cherry-blond man with blood dropping from over his left ear is leaning heavily against the dented but functioning controls.

"Will, what are you—?"

"We need to get out of here." He answers, easily crossing the room to be by the confused-looking Communications Officer's side.

"I don't—I don't remember the protocol for this, I don't—"

"I do. Everyone has heard your message already, so lets go." He smiles calmly, putting a hand on the blood-free shoulder and, after a second of squinting his eyes, the other smiles back.

"Sure, lets go. I need to get the kids—"

"Dexter!" Will whirls around at the sudden voice, easily recognizing Commander Prime and Jerry Lee standing at the door. "What—"

"We have to go, Sir." He cuts, helping the cherry-blond cross the room. "Do you know what's going on?" He can't help but ask, voice softening tremulously with fear, and the Civilian Government Commander grimaces.

"I can't contact the _Nemesis_. But come now, we need to leave before things get worse."

They're down the first flight of stairs of the already empty building when Dexter's legs fail him, so Will gets him on his back and Jerry stays close, chatting with the injured man to avoid him falling asleep.

The stairs to the ground floor are filled with so much rubble that they look impossible to cross.

Prime grimaces but straightens, taking a step forward—

"Will!" They all turn around, and the scientist smiles widely when he sees Jack waving at him from the other end of the corridor. "Over here!"

When they get into the office the brown-haired man guides them to, they find Percy next to a glass-less window, relief making the black-haired man smile when they come inside.

"There's a dumpster down there that people has used as a stepping stone. It's safer than the stairs." The Science Officer explains, Jack already jumping through their makeshift emergency exit.

"Commander, get down here! You'll have to catch Dexter!" The mad scientist shouts from the outside, and Prime obeys without question.

With Percy and Jerry's help, they manage to get the confused but awake Communications Officer down into the Civilian Government Commander's waiting arms, and, while Jack keeps an eye on the injured man, Will helps Jerry and Percy down into Prime's hold, jumping himself when the way down has been cleared.

"Alright, now to the bunkers, and to wait until the Enforcers come fetch us." The brown-haired man muses out loud as they get into the bustling yet not chaotic street, uniformed men and women directing the flow of scared people to the post-Black Day refuges created for such a situation.

Metallic pieces have fallen from the inner shield, and some more are hanging dangerously, but the tremors seem to have stopped.

For now.

"Commander!"

They all turn around, quickly feeling relieved when the Civilian Second and Third run to them with Security Officer Greg Allen panicking slightly after them.

"We need to get out of here now!"

"Any news from the _Nemesis_?" Prime grimaces at the question, and Allen frets even more at that.

"We need to get my kids." All eyes turn to Dexter, who is leaning on Jack but looks more coherent than a moment before.

"All schools are being evacuated, as per protocol, so there's—"

"They aren't in a school, they're at my place!" The Communications Officer shouts, silencing the Security Officer, and wobbling a bit. "We have to get them, I have to go—"

"I'll get them, what you need to do is get to the refuge before—"

A phone rings and they all freeze.

A second later, the Civilian Government Commander fumbles almost awkwardly as he hurries to take out the device from his pocket.

"Prime here." He answers almost without breath after pulling the phone to his ear, and his already pale face loses even more color at whatever he's told. "What do you mean… Yes, we'll be there as soon as possible, but we've got civilians and—" He flinches and pulls away from the device, the growling easily heard but without a chance to understand the words before he puts it back against his ear. "Alright, we're coming!"

"Please tell me that was Storm." The Second in Command not-asks, eyes wide and almost dreadful, when the call ends.

"It was. We're going to the _Nemesis_. All of us." Prime answers, and they all feel like a weight has lifted from their shoulders.

As the Head of Special Operations rushes away to go fetch the Sanders children, the Commander-in-Chief guides them to a couple of Enforcer hover-cars and, thanks to the uniformed men and women guiding the evacuation, they almost fly towards the Military Base.

Pressed against a door to leave the chatting Dexter and Jerry some space, Will can only hope things will turn out alright.

* * *

Starscream roars in victory as the Air Giant finally retreats, missing an arm and with a leg he knows it's just about to fall off.

Still watching the scans almost without blinking, ready to act if so much as a shade of _pink_ appears on them, he turns his attention to the unresponsive comm line with the _Nemesis_.

And finally, after what feels like hours, he gets an answer.

"_Storm here, Reeds, you can stop screeching._"

"Thank Primus! Are you alright? What's the situation?" He almost demands, gliding over the quarter distance area so as to keep an optic on his surroundings without staying in the same place too long.

Just in case.

"_They managed to get the _Nemesis_, those accursed monsters. The _Ark_'s under Code Black and the Civilian Officers are on their way here with a team of scientist to help us figure things out. We're still looking over the list of damages._"

Code Black. Damage to the inner shield.

And he can feel Soundwave's pain and horror almost burning, melting the ice that had filled his chest, but not making him feel better.

"Are you, the people in the bridge, alright? And… how bad off is the Protectodome?" He asks softly, his gliding bringing him back to where Bruticus is still lying on the ground near the damaged outer shield, unresponsive but active.

"_We're all fine, just scratches and bruises—_"

"_Scratches and bruises!_" Shepherd's indignant voice cuts through, and the Air Commander's eyes widen in worry, not looking away from the various screens. "_You call a dislocated shoulder a scratch or a bruise?_"

"Say what?!" He shouts, brusquely turning around in a U-turn.

Nothing happens.

The other two Tetrajets are hovering near the Combiner's fallen frame, close to the five Ground Cybertronian that survived the battle, so they are well out of the line of fire.

They shouldn't be targets, not with Starscream moving around and further from the Protectodome than they are, but he keeps his sensors at their max, just in case.

"_Our dear Supreme Commander has a no longer dislocated shoulder and a strained ankle. There are some _scratches_ and _bruises_, sure, mostly on the two Sanders, who did the smart thing and got under the console. Eric O'Hara has a broken leg, Tom three or four bruised ribs, and Garret's left wrist is dislocated, from when the table they were under got smashed. A couple of the technicians have some more bruised or broken bones and… one got his skull cracked open._" He winces in sympathy, hearing the pain in the medic's voice at his inability to save the guy. "_But don't you worry, I'm keeping an eye on them now. What the Hell _happened_ out there?!_"

"Would you believe me if I told you a Combiner-sized Black Beast showed up?"

"_Yes, because they've told me already, as well as it smashing _our_ Combiner against the Protectodome. I meant _after_ that._" He grumbles softly under his breath, mostly for show, as he lowers his altitude.

Still no changes.

"Well, the Aerial tailing me turned out to be a bomb or something. As soon as it got to the Protectodome, _boom_. It managed to survive the blast, but not me _blasting_ it. We kept going for the Air Giant's joints and we got it running not so long ago, minus one arm." Storm's chuckling is easily heard, and he smiles in response, despite them not being able to see it. "We've been trying to contact you since we lost the signal. Bruticus is non-responsive, but still active, and is practically leaning against the outer shield, so we should be able to get him inside." Soundwave's pain flares once more, and he balks, something that shows in what would have been an unwavering lifting up from the almost ground level gliding he's been performing before. "What's the Protectodome's state?"

"_Lester, Ryan!_" He jumps a bit on his seat at Civilian Commander Prime's sudden shout, not having heard him come into the bridge. "_Are you alright? What happened?_"

"_Calm down or I'm sedating you!_"

"_Dexter!_" He stiffens at Soundwave's worried scream, and almost looks at the small light that signifies an open comm line before stopping himself. "_Are you alright?_"

"_Sanders, let me take a look at him, and I'll _get_ him alright. Now, Dexter, look at me, that's it. Know who I am?_"

"_Couldn't not to, Hatchet._" The Civilian Communications Officer snickers, and the medic huffs in a mix between annoyance and relief.

"_We were running a field test of our Combiner when Black Beasts attacked. One of them was… something we hadn't seen before, a monster as big as Bruticus itself. It managed to throw the Cybertronian against the Protectodome and, together with a smaller one, was responsible for the damage to it._" Storm answers, stern yet somehow subdued, and Soundwave's pain comes in again. "_I need your scientists to work with mine to help us find a solution to things._"

"_'N ask 'im how much it's gonna be… 'm not payin' three grand again…_" Annoyance turns to positive surprise at the groggy yet well known voice popping up into the line, and Starscream finds himself smiling before he can stop himself.

"Donnell, you cheater! Get the rest of your team awake and I'll pay you _five_ grand!" He crows happily, and he can almost hear the Combiner member snap out of his confusion.

"_Keep your money, Air Commander. We're all up and about._" Law answers instead, groans and huffed affirmations following his words, along a defeated whine from the con man of the team.

"_Steve, are you alright?_" The Military Second would have frozen if he wasn't in the middle of a nosedive.

Still no reaction from his surroundings.

"Will? What are you doing there?" He asks instead after a second to let things click into place, his new trajectory bringing him closer to where Bruticus is lifting himself to a seating position.

"_We're here to help._" His friend answers with a smile clear in his voice, and he realizes then _who_ the Civilian science team are.

"Hook, don't let Jack go play with Eric!" The Military Science Officer lets out a bark of laughter while the other two squeal in protest, and he smiles again, safe in the knowledge no one can see the relief in his face.

"_So, anyone know who won the bet?_"

"_Finn!_" He snickers at Law's team unified shout, unable to stop himself from relaxing in his seat as he finally stops his directionless flying to hover over Bruticus' shoulder.

"_Alright, alright! I'll check the reports when we're back in Base._" Soundwave's pain flares again, and Starscream realizes no one's answered his question yet.

"_Commander Storm? How bad is it?_" Shawn's voice asks from the _Nemesis_' side of the comm line, and he lets out a sigh of relief at knowing he made it back safely.

"_Dad!_" Eyes blown wide again, the Air Commander allows himself a smile at the known squealing voices and his brother's startled yelp, as well as Soundwave's happiness and relief.

Jazz's snickers quickly fill the background.

"_Hey, I fetched Phillips on the way here, can you give him a look, Shepherd? I think it's only a dislocated ankle, but I didn't want to chance it._"

"_At least someone has a functioning brain around here! Put him in that chair. And you, kids, give Dexter some room, will you?_"

"_Commander Reeds? What happened?_" Lizzie asks, worried, and he can almost see the tears in her eyes.

"A rough attack, girl, but we got it under control now." Soundwave's pain flares once more, seemingly stronger, and he tenses unconsciously. "Now, can someone tell me _how bad is it_?"

The silence that follows is more ominous than any answer they could have given him.

"_Commander Storm? How bad is it?_" Law repeats, his calm voice not sounding as confident as usual.

"_The outer shield was breached and the shutters didn't close in time. The decontamination area is compromised._" His hovering turns shaky, and he feels like he's about to fall from the sky.

"_So we're… stuck outside. For how long?_"

Law's question stays unanswered, and Starscream starts to shake in his seat.

There's a soft beep from the other side of the line, so sudden that he jumps in surprise and someone squeaks.

"_The… the results just came in._" Soundwave's voice is clearly shaky, and the Air Commander barely keeps his whimpering silent. "_The stocks in the decontamination area aren't enough to repair the breach._"

And the last question is answered in that instant, when he feels like he's spiraling down to meet certain death, despite still hovering almost motionlessly.

"We'll stay out here until we die."

* * *

**AN:** Title based on the first of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the one with the bow and the crown and riding a white horse, and whom I know as 'Pestilence'.

To be sincere, I was going to be orderly *cough*cruel*cough* and publish this chapter next weekend, following schedule. But then I re-read the previous one to check for typos, and, next thing I knew, I was already jumping to the next part and I thought 'hey, I have it all written and polished, why make people suffer waiting?' Plus, I'm done with college and going home for summer, which means I'm in a very happy mood. So, you get an extra update!

Enjoy it! *insert evil cackling*

Next one on... Wednesday, me thinks. Unless I find internet connection tomorrow (not likely, but hey, who knows).

**Angel Heart:** When I started writing, I knew I was going to put at least one Gestalt, but then I took a look at them all and couldn't decide which, so... Lotsa people! I'm glad you managed to get them sorted out, and I hope this chapter (and the following) help clear the rest. I've been trying to drop clues, but I'm aware they're hard to find and even more to comprehend. I got Bruticus as the 'in-scene' gestalt mostly because they all kept assaulting me (seriously, I _dreamed_ about them), though the Aerialbots, to my surprise, kind of 'volunteered' to be the 'fallen heroes', even though I wanted to see them too, even had some scenes thought out... And since Menasor didn't want to be left out, and the Constructicons already had their place assigned (and barricaded, I couldn't have put them in different positions even if I tried), that's how it went.

I'm glad the scientific bits weren't too hard to read. I'm a scientist in the making, and sometimes I forget that not everybody has the knowledge that it's now basic to me, nor understands all the terms and references, so I'm happy to read that. Oh, and that's Screamer for you, a Seeker through and through XD

To your question... I don't 'like' breaking hopes, it's just that the chapter was growing too long... Though yes, I seem to have a subconscious fondness for cliff-hangers XD But hey, that's what the extra update is for, isn't it? ;)

Thanks for everything and hope to read from you later!


	16. The Red Horse

Jazz feels cold at the empty voice coming through the comm, Starscream sounding defeated, like he's already halfway into his grave.

Which, unless he has misunderstood, he _is_.

"Do you mind repeating that in smaller words? I think I got lost after 'the outer shield was breached'." He hears himself ask, calm and with a small tremulous smile on his face.

Storm turns to him with dark eyes, hunched into himself in a way his being sitting down doesn't justify, before turning to Soundwave.

Pale as death, covered in dust and flakes of rust, hair disheveled and scratches covering his back and arms, the man turns to the 3D projector, sunglasses lying on the ground in the middle of dark glass shards not covering his emotion-filled blue eyes.

The three dark-haired teenagers flock closer to where Dexter, forehead bandaged, is looking around in confusion from his chair, his own children kneeling by his sides and staying as close as physically possible.

The two dogs lying behind the Civilian Communications Officer whine loudly when the machine beeps shrilly, but the noise stops when Soundwave tweaks a couple of wires, getting it working again.

Phillips' hand, clutching one of his own almost painfully, squeezes, and the Head of Special Operations looks down into scared wide eyes.

He manages what looks like a reassuring smile, and the boyish Enforcer relaxes a bit, turning his attention back to Shepherd, who has finally managed to get the boot off his bum foot.

A flickering projection of a Protectodome appears over the machine, and Jazz looks at it like it will reveal the solutions to all their problems.

Prowl steps closer to him, and his chest warms at the silent support.

"All Protectodomes share the same structure." Garret O'Hara, aka Hook, starts, approaching the projector to be able to manipulate the image, tenderly holding his left arm against his stomach to protect his bandaged wrist. "In the simplest of terms, they all have three layers." A quarter of the image is highlighted before the rest disappears, and it 'opens' to reveal two metallic surfaces. "The outer shield, which is our defense against physical attacks and the Black Plague. The inner shield, which forms the Protectodome's structure and supports the outer shield. And the space between them, the decontamination area, through which the Cybertronian are directed to the correct exit points, and where they get rid of the Black Plague when they come back inside." He explains, pointing at each area as he summarizes their functions.

A loud yelp makes them jump, and Jazz quickly looks down to see Phillips grimacing and Shepherd bandaging his now properly aligned foot.

"_What was that?_" Starscream asks through the speakers, worry clear in his voice.

"Just putting joints back in place, Air Commander." The doctor answers, and sympathetic winces echo through the open line.

"Now, what essentially happens in the decontamination area is that the Black Plague is peeled off the hulls by converting it back to its gaseous state, which is filtered back outside." Eric O'Hara continues, and Hook taps the outer shield's projection, expanding it to show a complex set of tubes and shutters and filters. "That means that, until all the Black Plague has been expelled, the gates on the inner shield that connect with the inside of the Protectodome will remain closed."

"The main problem with the decontamination area also being where the movement of the Cybertronian happens, is that it is one big continuous ring." The first scientist takes over, some more tapping on the controls showing a view from above of the Protectodome's layout that, effectively, reveals the three layers as unbroken rings. "That would mean that the whole area needs to be Plague-free for the gates to open, which would take a lot more time, because the mist would have more space to expand—well, to put it mildly, it's a _bad_ idea to have it like that. So, instead of being a nice circumference like the one showed here, the real decontamination area is divided in sectors by shutters." Lines appear through the middle ring, from inner to outer shield, dividing it in ten equal parts. "The shutters are usually open to let Cybertronian movement happen unimpeded, and close when decontamination needs to happen or, in a worst case scenario, there's a breach." The lines vanish and Hook stabs a finger through the outer shield, turning the whole middle ring red. "This is what would happen without the shutters. With them, though…" The image clears before the scientist repeats the gesture, but the lines appear almost instantly, leaving only the broken into part colored. "The contamination is contained, which allows use of the rest of partitions. Once the breach is repaired, the decontamination area's usual systems will take care of clearing it."

"But in this case…" Prowl frowns, looking at the display calculatingly, and the three O'Hara share sad looks.

"In this case… the _Nemesis_ was the main damaged area. The shutters' controls got damaged by the backlash of energy when the Base got hit, and their reaction time slowed so much that…" Hook touches something on the console and, lines still in place, all the partitions turn red. "By the time they shut down, all the decontamination area had been compromised."

"But the non-damaged areas are still working, aren't they? Won't they clear and allow the Cybertronian to go through them?" Jerry asks, hopeful.

All civilians turn to him with surprise before feeling the weight of fear and desperation lighten, but Jazz, Prowl and Prime don't look away from the Military officers, and so, they only see the darkness growing.

"Yes, but what good would that do?" All eyes fall on Tom O'Hara, sullenly glaring at the floor.

"What do you mean?" Allen asks softly, nervously wringing his hands, and the scientist huffs in what sounds like defeat.

"All Military Cybertronian are stationed in the _Nemesis_' docks, and those got damaged. None can get in or out, and the Military models aren't exactly compatible with Civilian docks. We're stuck with what you see for as long as they are coherent enough to pilot them." He adds grumpily, making an off-hand gesture towards the screen showing the blue dots and ID bubbles, but not looking at it.

"Can't you repair them? Don't you have drones and stockpiles for such situations?" Prime asks softly, trying to meet Storm's raging gaze.

"Didn't you hear Sanders? Our stocks won't be enough." The Supreme Commander answers, turning his heated glare to Hook, who winces and does something to the projector.

The Protectodome shown this time is the full dome recreation, only the outer shield visible, but with pale blue lines detailing where the decontamination area's shutters are supposed to be.

A green rectangle at the bottom of one whole partition signals the _Nemesis_' position, and three purple ones filling three others in a cross-like orientation represent the Civilian docks.

The _Nemesis_' partition is colored red three quarters of its height, and the two at its sides have half their width also marked.

Jazz pales, and he can hear Prowl's shaky exhale as loud as if it was his own.

"Those are the Civilian docks, and this is the _Nemesis_. And _that_ is the damaged area." Hook points simply, and the rest of people in the room finally react, either by paling, cursing, gasping, starting to shake, or various of those at once.

"_Can we get a copy?_" The Civilian Third tenses at the unexpected voice, quickly remembering that, even though they aren't physically here, there are more people taking part in the meeting.

Even though he doesn't know who the guy that has talked is.

Soundwave lowers his head as he approaches the projector, clicking something that makes the image flicker—

And loud curses fill the room through the comm system.

"Law, control your team!" Storm roars, and silence falls again.

"_I apologize, Commander. But how could this—this _disaster_ happen?_" 'Law' asks after a couple of seconds, a soft sob and muttered curses audible under his voice.

"_By having two Combiner-sized elements slam into the Protectodome, and a bomb go off once the structure had been weakened._" Starscream answers instead, growling menacingly, and his dot on the screen sways a bit over the bigger one. "_No surprise our stocks aren't enough to fix that. How bad is the damage to the _Nemesis_? Any chance we could use the waxing rooms?_"

"We're talking about all of you dying and the whole Protectodome at the mercy of the Black Beasts and you want to _wax your Tetrajet_?! What the fuck is wrong with you!" Greg Allen explodes, kept back from whatever he's about to do by a startled Blake holding him by the shoulders.

"The 'waxing rooms' are part of the decontamination area, Mister, so shut up and let us explain." Tom growls back, and Shepherd rushes to the Security Officer's side to talk to him softly, helping him calm down.

"They serve a similar function to the shutters dividing the DA—that is, the decontamination area—in the sense that they are rooms connected to the individual docking spots." Hook pipes in with a scowl on his face, pulling up an image of an opaque rectangular box attached to the outer side of a thick wall, with a trench in the inner side that Jazz recognizes as the dock itself. "When most of the Black Plague has been taken off, the Cybertronian enter their rooms, and the machinery inside gets whatever of the substance that still remains off. This also allows for individual entrance instead of having all Cybertronian stay in the DA waiting to be cleared." A reddish mist fills the outside of the box as the back doors open, letting a red-mottled Ground Cybertronian in.

When the wall partition connecting with the dock is pulled back, the craft that comes inside has been cleared of red, despite the mist outside still being there.

"This way, injuries are treated almost as soon as the Cybertronian gets in the DA, and we avoid the docks becoming jammed with all pilots coming out at once and the usual personnel waiting for them." The lead scientist keeps explaining, and, by the time he's done, Allen nods apologetically to him. "Unfortunately for us, the _Nemesis_, as said before, was the central point of attack, so all waxing rooms have been damaged, and the tracks leading to them are destroyed." He finally answers, looking at the screen as if he could see the Air Commander there, instead of a blue dot and a picture.

"Were the Black Beasts targeting the _Nemesis_?" Percival Thorn asks almost coldly, though the way his hands grip his elbows, arms crossed against his stomach, are enough to let Jazz know he's afraid.

As are all the others.

Intelligent Black Beasts, Combiner-sized Black Beasts, and now Black Beasts capable of locating structures _inside_ the Protectodome?

The Civilian Third shudders visibly, rubbing his sides, as he meets Soundwave's blue eyes.

"They weren't." The Military Communications Officer answers calmly, and muttered agreements through the comm line support his words. "We were running a field test, and they attacked the Cybertronian present. It was by luck alone that they happened to be in front of the _Nemesis_."

"And once the Protectodome was damaged, they seized the opportunity to get through it." Prowl finishes with a nod, looking calm in comparison with the rest, but he can feel his worry and slight fear, and see it in the way he straightens his shoulders.

… Huh, he's never been able to judge the Commander-in-Chief's mood by his _shoulders_, of all things.

He feels Soundwave's gaze on him, questioning, but, unable to answer in such a setting, he just straightens again and whirls his arms to get rid of the tension on his back.

He gets weird looks at that, but he just smiles widely back.

"Alright. Let's see if I've got things right. We have a very big hole that we can't seal, contaminated sections that are being cleared as we speak, but the docks they house aren't compatible, and only—" Jazz takes a quick look at the screen to make sure of what he's seen before facing the room again. "—one Combiner, three Tetrajets and five Ground Cybertronian to guard the whole Protectodome." He looks questioningly at the Supreme Commander, who nods with a small frown, silently asking what he's thinking, so he smiles. "Can we modify one of the Civilian docks so that they can use it?" He asks Hook, who shrugs and turns to his brothers and the Civilian scientists standing nearby.

"That's one of the reasons we asked for them. Technically, it's possible, though we need to do a lot of work to pull this out. Military Cybertronian, specially some of those out there, have special energy needs, which will be the main problem, and we'll have to get the waxing rooms to work with their frames." The oldest O'Hara answers, and the Head of Special Operations can already see calculations and blueprints filling Jackson and Thorn's brains as Daryl beams at the chance to help.

"And can the resources available be used to repair the _Nemesis_ instead of the outer shield? To allow the rest of the Cybertronian out?" He continues, his gaze jumping from the suddenly frozen Military scientists to the grimacing Storm and Soundwave. "Was it something I said?"

"You know the _Nemesis_ is as much part of the DA as the inside of the Protectodome, don't you?" Hook asks instead, and the Civilian Third nods with a confused look. "We could put the waxing rooms back together, but the tracks leading to them… they're part of the transport system, which means they are linked to both inner and outer shield. And without the outer shield…" He looks away, and Jazz feels his stomach plummet to his feet.

"Won't the waxing rooms be enough?" Phillips questions softly, and the three O'Hara shake their heads.

"They wouldn't be able to get inside without the tracks. They're too high off ground level for Ground Cybertronian, and the Tetrajets need to close their wings well before getting close enough to get in safely. Getting out would be equally impossible."

"_I bet the Air Commander would manage._" A voice pipes in through the comm, fake cheerfulness covering up the despair in it.

"_Everybody knows that if anyone could, that'd be him, Finn._" Another answers, gruffer and angered, but equally subdued. "_That bet's invalid._"

"… _It isn't as if I have anything else to bet, anyway…_"

"So, we have to make do with the nine Cybertronian already outside." Prime sums up quietly, shoulders slumping visibly.

"… It gets worse." Dread filling him, Jazz turns to stare at Shepherd, as does everyone else, but the medic doesn't look up from the ground under his shoes, fists tightly clenched trembling at his sides.

"How so?" Jackson asks softly, as if afraid of the darkness starting to fill the room.

"We have to make do with only thirteen pilots, too."

"_What_?!"

"_Cybertronian aren't all compatible._" Law's voice cuts through the hysteria calmly, getting everyone to stare at the big blue blob on the screen expectantly. "_The basic models, sure, but those more specialized, like the Air Commander's craft or Bruticus' individual parts? They're not. So, while our two flying friends here and the five others at my feet can be relieved by other guys, neither Reeds nor us can._"

"But I could—"

"_No way._" Starscream cuts swiftly before Shawn can say any more. "_I've seen your Tetrajet. There's no way you could man mine. Yours relies on its nuclear core and thick armor. Mine… Mine is all about speed and agility. If you can't use them, you'll be as much of a target as if you were covered in neon signs._"

"How about me? Can't I do anything?" Blake asks Soundwave, an almost desperate frown on his face, and the Military Third turns to his console.

"You should be able to relieve Shore—"

"No." All eyes fall on Storm, who is glowering in his seat. "Blake can't man a Combiner, and there's no way we're disassembling Bruticus. That Air Giant is still out there, and who knows if there aren't more." All the Military men shiver at that, and there's a soft curse from the comm in agreement. "We need to modify the Civilian docks and start on whatever repairs can be done with our stocks. How much do we have left?" Soundwave and Hook exchange a look, and, some clicking later from the Communications Officer's part, the scientist pulls up a new display on the projector.

The image of the Protectodome, complete with the Base, shutters and docks' locations, as well as its damages, is still the same, but yellow spots have now appeared on it, three on each partition, minus on those red.

"Well, according to this data, we should be able to use these—" A touch turns the yellow spots over Civilian Dock 3 light blue. "—to adapt the docks. And with the rest… I'd say…" A couple more touches delete the red on the sections around the _Nemesis_', but the engineer's frown turns to a frustrated scowl. "We could get those parts of the outer shield and the waxing rooms back to speck, as well as the shutters, but that would be it. One way or another, we can't enable movement from the _Nemesis_, no matter what we do."

"So we _really_ are left with only the thirteen of them?" Jerry muses softly, wide eyes lost in the middle distance as he curls against the Civilian Government Commander's side. "What does it mean to them?"

"_It means we won't be able to leave our Cybertronian until the Protectodome has been completely repaired._" Law answers simply, voice sounding softer, and Jazz exchanges a worried and frustrated look with Prowl who, under his visible calm, is feeling murderous enough that the Head of Special Operations can hear his engine growl.

Soundwave sends them a quick look, the same helplessness filling the Enforcers clear in the strange blue irises.

"How about food? And _water_?" Daryl asks with horror growing on his features, staring at the screen as if it held a video-call instead of a visual of the battlefield.

"Flight uniforms are practically covered in pockets." Buzz Sanders answers instead, looking relieved about being able to help. "They have all kind of things in those, from pen lanterns and field repair and medical kits to sludge food."

"_Sludge_ food?!" Shepherd growls, making the kids jump and yelp in surprise.

"_A compound with high content in nutrients and water. Looks, and _tastes_, like mud. So, sludge food._" Starscream answers almost chirpily, and the doctor turns his snarl to the screen. "_It was made mandatory after the Stealth Cybertronian's incident, so thanks a lot for that, Jazz._" The Civilian Third breaks out laughing, remembering clearly the day, for more reasons than one.

"Always here to help." He returns with a cocky salute.

Not that the Air Commander can see it.

And yet, when he hears the snickering that follows his words, he has the feeling that, somehow, he has.

_Weird_.

"And how much time does that give you?" The cheeriness and good humor that had filled the bridge vanishes instantly at Prowl's voice.

Valid as the question is, the Head of Spec Ops can't help but mourn the loss.

"_If we ration it right, about five days. Maybe more for Bruticus._"

"_We could make it last more if needed, but I'd rather not cut our rations even more. We need the whole team for this, after all._" Law answers the unvoiced question, and the medic grimaces with a loud hiss.

"_The problem won't be the food._" All heads snap up, eyes once more on the screen, at the Air Commander's grudging admittance. "_The Cybertronian's energy reserves will be._"

"How much do you have?" Hook asks quickly, exchanging a worried look with his brothers.

"_Not enough for five days, and that will be without fighting._"

Which _will_ happen, because there's no way the Black Beasts will leave them be for five days when their shields are halfway down.

"You need to reduce the consumption rate until we have the Civilian docks modified. Bruticus, enter standby on standing position. Having to get up will be a waste, and you'd better be as ready as possible when those creeps come back. All Cybertronian, disable your weapons. Our scans will give us enough forewarning for you to get them back online in time. And turn off your scans, including radar and lidar, as well as the screens. Tetrajets, you need to land and turn off your engines." The oldest O'Hara orders, the projector now showing schematics for the Combiner, as well as two Tetrajets and a Ground Cybertronian, the man quickly modifying parameters with deft touches. "Close all but the main comm line, and keep this one on standby. Oh, and I suggest you sleep, oxygen consumption will reduce like that, which will slow vital support's activity."

"_You want us to _sleep_ in this kind of situation?_" Donnell screeches through the comm, and the scientist scowls.

"No shouting! And stop talking, too! I'm trying to keep you alive here!"

Silence covers the bridge, almost expectantly.

"_You heard Hook, people. Get moving. Tetrajets, settle on Bruticus' shoulders and try to make do with gliding as much as possible, but do _not_ hesitate to use your engines if the situation merits it._" Starscream orders and, slowly, the dots onscreen move and dim to a deep azure. "_Putting comm on standby now, _Nemesis_. Keep us informed._" There's a soft click and only static comes through the speakers after that, the Air Commander's signal dimming.

Soundwave presses something on his console, and the static stops.

"And how much time will that give them?" Storm asks softly, not looking away from the screen, and the Military Science Officer sighs in a mix of frustration and defeat, taking away the schematics on the projector.

"It'll depend on the Black Beasts' movements, but if nothing were to happen… I don't give them much more than a week."

Beeping cuts the ominous silence that has settled on them.

Startled and confused, Jazz turns to the communications console, where Raleigh Sanders smiles sharply at whatever has happened.

"What have you done?" Soundwave asks, frowning softly but as surprised as the rest, looking over the younger man's shoulder.

"I sent _Iacon_ the details of our situation and asked for help. They're hailing us." The Sub-Commander answers hopefully, looking up at the Military Third before turning to a stunned Storm.

A blink later, the Supreme Commander returns the sharp smirk and whirls his chair around to face the screen.

"Patch them through."

The grid-like view of the battlefield shrinks to the bottom left corner, and Sebastien Prime is suddenly onscreen, four other men sitting next to him, the Military SIC and TIC to his left and their Civilian counterparts to his right.

_Iacon_'s Supreme and Civilian Government Commander scans them all with cold seriousness before his gaze comes to rest on the sitting Storm and August Prime standing by his shoulder, Jerry Lee now staying close to Allen.

"Commander Storm, Commander Prime." The older man greets with a nod of his head, blond and gray hair perfectly cut and combed back, and same-colored mustache neatly trimmed, unlike Jackson's own. "We received your communication and have deliberated about it. Before deciding on a future course of action, we're going to need all the updated information you have available."

"Already sent, Commander Prime." Soundwave answers calmly from his post by the communications console, standing as straight and composed as his disheveled appearance allows.

The men onscreen look down, most likely at pads, to review the new data.

The silence grows tense, with people starting to fidget, as they just keep staring at something they can't see.

And then, with a huff-like sigh, Sebastien Prime straightens and looks back at them.

"Is that all?" He asks, and both of the _Ark_'s Commanders nod, tense and expectant. "Then, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."

Jazz has to grab the back of Phillips' chair to stay upright, his other hand immediately on Prowl's shoulder as the man sags in place, mask broken to reveal all the despair and betrayal they're both feeling.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Raleigh grabbing Soundwave before he falls to his knees, and helping him into a chair.

Judging by the way August is clenching Storm's shoulder, the Civilian Government Commander isn't feeling much better.

"My suggestion would be to evacuate the Civilian and Military officers, and perhaps some selected civilians or promising Military personnel. Take all important data, including that of the Hall of Records, recover Shawn Reeds' Tetrajet, and come to _Iacon_. Have the available Military Cybertronian escort you. We will have medical support at the ready to attend those who manage to make it here."

Silence.

"Are you _fucking crazy_?!" If he hadn't been frozen by his ire, Jazz would have shouted too, but he suspects it wouldn't have been as impressive as Storm's roar. "We can't just leave! There's a whole _Protectodome_ full of people counting on us!"

"Commander Storm, I understand your frustration. But in such dire circumstances, we need to make sacrifices."

"But aren't those sacrifices oriented to helping the many, not the _few_?!" August Prime puts in, his whole body shaking with rage even as his face is distorted by disbelief. "We can't run away!"

"And they _will_ help the many. The knowledge you will bring, as well as your expertise, will enable _Iacon_ to stand against the Black Beasts."

"But what about the _Ark_?" The younger Prime whispers, as lost as a young child, as he looks up at the elder with wide blue eyes.

"The _Ark_ has been sentenced. You can't let it drag you down with it."

"And my men? Those brave soldiers out there, ready to starve themselves, to _die_, in a fight against all odds to _give us a chance_? We have a functional Combiner out there! The strongest registered to date! And my Second, who managed to get rid of an explosive Black Beast and another the size of a Combiner—are you really going to have them flock around us to fall like flies during our journey?! They don't have the energy to make it!" The Supreme Commander rages, getting to his feet with no regard for his bandaged ankle and slamming a fist against the railing.

Loudly.

To their utter surprise, Sebastien Prime looks to be considering his words.

"You are right, Commander Storm." The man looks flabbergasted, falling back into his chair when all his wrath vanishes, Prime gaping like a fish at his back. "They won't make it. We'll send some of our own Military to meet you halfway."

A couple hanging planks fall from the ceiling at the roar.

Wide eyes are on him, even those on the other side of the screen, but Jazz doesn't stop his engine-like growling, seemingly coming from the depths of his chest.

"I'm _done_ with you bunch of aft-heads! Sit on a screw and turn around, you Pit rejects! The Unmaker himself would be disgusted if he ever met you, sparkless scrapheaps! We're _people_! We're alive, we _feel_, unlike you pile of rust-eaten junk! We are _not_ leaving, we are _not_ going anywhere when all it will take for _all_ of us to pull through is you sending some supplies to repair the Protectodome!"

Cooling systems working frantically, Jazz keeps glaring into Prime's empty gaze.

"Our decision is final. Let us know before you depart."

The screen turns as black as the eyeballs of the man in it had been, and Jazz's bellow of rage turns to an agonizing screech as his processor explodes and his blood turns to liquid fire.

* * *

**AN:** Title based on the second of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the one with the great sword and riding a red horse, and whom I know as 'War'.

'Sit on a screw and turn around' isn't mine. I can't remember where I read it, but it isn't mine.

Also, a wink to _Star Trek_ with what has to be their most famous quote ever: "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one."

I'm going to leave this here and go away, don't mind me...


	17. The Black Horse

The beeping is almost as annoying as the silence would be, and, despite its practicality, he doesn't need it.

He knows Jazz is alive because the hand between his is still warm, and the chest keeps rising and falling rhythmically.

Silence, all around him, with only that depressing beeping sound to cut through it.

And yet, he knows when the other comes inside.

"Three days." The newcomer doesn't answer, doesn't make the smallest noise, and, if he didn't _know_ he's here, he would have thought himself still alone. "Three days." The hand on his shoulder is warm, and reassuring, and expected, and as sad as he himself is feeling. "Three days."

Yesterday, it had been two. Tomorrow, it will be four.

And, if they are lucky, there will be a fifth.

They haven't been lucky these last three days.

He's not expecting things to change.

Not for the best.

Although, who knows.

Maybe dying _will_ be for the best.

"Don't even think about that." Soundwave hisses, his hand tightening his grip, and he reflexively clasps it with one of his own. "Dying is _not_ the solution. We'll get out of this."

"Only five remain of our nine Cybertronian, Jazz is in coma, Starscream is trapped outside with a Tetrajet that is almost running on fumes, and _Iacon_ still refuses to help. _How_, exactly, will we get out of this if we don't die?" He growls back, increasing the pressure on the other man's hand, but the Third in Command doesn't react. "_How_, Soundwave? _How_?" He chokes back a sob, releasing his catch to cover his face. "_How_?"

He feels movement in front of him and, next he knows, he's being pulled into a warm embrace, his head pressed against the blond's chest for him to hear his calm heartbeat.

The hand covering Jazz's is enveloped in warmth when their fellow officer puts his on top of theirs.

"Together. That's how."

As baseless as that hope is, he can't stop it when it wraps itself around his heart, warming him enough to break and, after that, to mend.

And so, as the two days before, he presses against the warm cloth and lets tears fall down his cheeks, lets all hopelessness and fear pour out in his muffled sobs, lets all worries and doubts fall off his shaking shoulders.

And, when he has finally get rid of them, he straightens and pulls himself together, going over the facts of the previous day, over their progress on the modification of Civilian Dock 3, over possible strategies for the Cybertronian to use during the next attack, over new ways to try to convince _Iacon_.

Soundwave, as the two days before, just sits on the bed and keeps a hand on his shoulder, unhidden eyes meeting his when he finally looks up.

Once they get out the door of Med Bay, the Third in Command will take out the sunglasses he keeps in his pocket and put them on, but, until then, there are no barriers, no secrets between them.

Three days ago, after that fated meeting to discuss the attack and their options, once Jazz, who collapsed in a screaming and writhing mass of dark skin and blood, was rushed to the mostly non-functional Med Bay, Storm and Prime declared the State of Emergency.

All citizens, by then already secure in the well stocked post-Black Day bunkers, were told that most of the danger had already passed, but, while repairs were underway, they would stay there.

The population had taken things in stride and, happy and grateful, obeyed.

His Enforcers, as per protocol, staid in the bunkers to guard the civilians and maintain order.

The Military was sent to check the Protectodome for any left behind or trapped civilians, and to start the cleanup of the streets, meaning, first of all, to get rid of the bodies.

The destruction of the inner shield hadn't been as bad as during the Black Day, thanks to the reinforcements they put in place after that, but big enough parts of it had still fallen off, and some buildings had collapsed because of the tremors.

Work is still underway, but all survivors have already been found and relocated to the refuges, a couple of miles underground.

As for the _Ark_'s Governance, its structure has been modified into a single, united entity, instead of being divided in Civilian and Military.

And, because of the circumstances, he has kept his post as Second in Command, as Soundwave his of Third.

Co-Commanders Prime and Storm are still at the top of the hierarchy, followed by himself, the former Military officer, and the rest of Division Officers.

Garret O'Hara and Percival Thorn commandeer the Science Division together, Raleigh Sanders has been designed as Communications Officer with Dexter Sanders as his Sub-Commander while the cherry-blond recuperates from his head injury, and Shawn Reeds is in charge of the clean up. Ryan Shepherd, Greg Allen and Aaron Blake still keep their posts, though now the Security Chief's job is more oriented to the outside of the Protectodome and the Transports Officer's, to the inside.

The children, which is a title no longer restricted to the Sanders kids, but that also includes Jerry Lee and Drew Phillips, help around their center of operations, aka the _Nemesis_, with small things, like repairing broken machines damaged during the attack or by the power surge it caused, as messengers, or making sure the adults refuel, something easier said than done.

Fortunately for them, Steeljaw, Dexter's Bloodhound, helps them track the officers when it's time to eat, and is even better than the security cameras at finding them. And if someone refuses or pushes them away to eat 'later', Ramhorn, the younger Sanders' Alaskan Malamute, convinces them otherwise, either by not letting them leave the room, by barking loudly, or, as Prowl himself was subjected to, by throwing them to the ground and lying over their legs, not moving until all food has been eaten by the human.

The children find it hilarious. Prowl, not so much.

But, since it has been the only time since the attack that Soundwave has burst out laughing without care, he recalls with some fondness the memory of sitting in the middle of the corridor with a forty pound mass of muscle and fur panting happily on his lap while moodily slurping cold spaghetti.

Besides, Phillips and Lee's gobsmacked expressions as they watched the Third in Command lean shakily against the wall to get his breathing under control were _definitely_ worth it.

He got both dogs some meatballs that afternoon.

"I wish I had taken a picture." He muses out loud, and the amused smile on Soundwave's face tells him he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"So do I." The blond answers easily, getting up and turning to look down at Jazz sadly. "We'll be back later." He tells the unconscious man softly, making sure the already perfect blanket covering him is really in place.

"Take care, Jazz, and try to get better. I'll see you in a couple hours." He tells his friend, squeezing the hand still in his grasp, as he stands up.

It isn't until a hand is put on his shoulder that he lets go and walks away, feeling the emptiness in his chest growing bigger with each step.

"Starscream says to get your aft in gear." He hears the Third in Command whisper before silent footsteps take him out of the Med Bay too.

He can't help but envy the other officer these times, when he realizes he can still feel his heart-brother, as they've dubbed the term, while Prowl can't.

Guilt always assaults him immediately after those thoughts come to mind, because Soundwave may feel Starscream, but that means he's feeling him growing weaker each day, and, if they don't manage to get them back, he'll feel him die long after they lose his signal.

He knows the Third in Command knows what he's thinking, but the blond never says anything about it, he just stands by his side and waits for him to start walking, like now, or keeps working as if he didn't really know what goes through his processor.

He doesn't know if he should feel grateful for him not mentioning it, or ashamed that he lets those thoughts get to him.

So, like the two days before, he just goes back to the task at hand, which, this time, is going to the bridge.

Storm and Prime are talking quietly next to the 3D projector, one-eared headphones on signifying they're talking to the team on Civilian Dock 3, led by the O'Hara brothers, if the blueprints of said area are any indication, with a crutch leaning against the back of the chair the Supreme Commander is occupying, meaning he hasn't yet managed to convince Shepherd his ankle's better, even if he's finally gotten rid of the sling that kept the weight of the arm off the still tender shoulder joint.

Greg Allen is going over the _Nemesis_' various scans, tinkering with their settings to try to improve them, unknown programs running on a separate screen and a changing view from the Military Base's security cameras on another.

Raleigh and Dexter Sanders are fiddling with a fuse box near the communications console, with Phillips and young Ralph handing them tools and consulting a datapad to guide the repair process, respectively. The Enforcer has had his ankle more firmly immobilized than Storm's but his quick mastery of the crutches means he has no problem using them, so he's not trying to 'forget' them every hour of the day.

The main screen looks the same as when he left last night, with the only signals being the deep azure of the power-saving Cybertronian.

Bruticus' is still the easiest to recognize and the first to catch his attention, standing further away from the Protectodome than the first day, which is to be expected after the two attacks they've gone through.

The three Ground crafts resting at the Combiner's sides like guard dogs are the next his sight wanders to, one of them a deeper blue than the rest, an indicator of lower energy levels.

And, last but not least, he finds the only remaining Tetrajet, nestled on Bruticus' right shoulder, and hard to identify if it wasn't for the ID bubble, due to it being the same shade of deep azure as the Combiner.

Starscream.

The Lord of the Skies, as the children have started to call him after seeing him in action, as much as the 2D battle renditions allow.

The only one skilled enough to have gone through the two attacks with only engaging his engines once, and who has managed to get rid of the Aerials by outmaneuvering them into crashing, sometimes into other Black Beasts, or by guiding them into Bruticus' reach.

The first of the two Tetrajets fell in battle, shot down by a Point Heavy, while the second was victim to energy consumption when he couldn't stop himself from using his engines.

Bruticus has been doing most of the fighting against the Ground Black Beasts, and it has been through kicks or punches, since moving is less taxing to his systems than using his weaponry.

The Ground Cybertronian have fought too, sure, but since they rely only on their weapons, they've been ordered to stay on the defense until they are forced to shoot back.

He knows Soundwave, despite being able to communicate somehow with the Air Commander, longs to talk with the man as much as Prowl himself, more so every time their eyes stray to the screen, but they can't.

The only times they're able to is just before and during battles, and no one is thinking of doing more than get rid of the Black Beasts as soon as possible without wasting too much energy.

Which is why Bruticus stays immobile until the Black Beasts get close enough for him to do as much harm with as little movement as possible, or until Starscream herds them to that point, or as nearby as he can.

"Hey Dad, Commander Fowler." They turn around at the voice, finding a softly smiling Lizzie with two mugs of black coffee on her hands. "Buzz will bring up some doughnuts as soon as he can." She tells them calmly as she hands over the drinks.

"Thank you." The Second in Command answers while the Third hugs her close, the girl eagerly returning the gesture.

"You're welcome." Her smile sours as she catches a glimpse of the screen behind them, and she quickly turns around and exits the bridge.

The coffee in his hands suddenly feels very unappealing.

Here they are, eating coffee and doughnuts for breakfast, when, just on the other side of the halved shields, people are subsisting with barely more than a sip of mud-tasting porridge.

His grip around the mug tightens as he remembers Shepherd's dismayed and pained voice explaining that each pilot carried only one small pouch-like carton of the highly nutritious and water rich substance that would keep a fully grown human fed for a day.

Three days have passed since.

Soundwave's hand brushes his, and they both make their way to their Commanders.

"—much will be needed, then?" Storm growls into his mic, a hand tapping the projector impatiently as he scowls at the modified blueprints of the docks.

Prime gives them a tired half smile, a gesture they answer with a dip of their heads, before looking down at the projection too, his attention on the three-way conversation through comm.

A look at the changes that weren't there yesterday tells him all he needs to know.

One of the docking slots of Civilian Dock 3 is almost ready, the rest still being worked on, but the energy converter they've managed to install in place of the original is painted red, showing there's a problem either with the machine or with the connection.

One way or another, that docking slot is unusable to Military Cybertronian right now.

Taking a sip from his drink, Prowl looks over the others.

They're trying to get at least one per Cybertronian, but, at the moment, they're concentrating on having them compatible with either Tetrajet or Ground craft, so that all would be able to get at least half a charge when they are ready.

That for Ground Cybertronian is the one almost ready, with the one for Tetrajets, the urgency of which has gone down with the loss of two out of their three flight-capable crafts, is a quarter of the process behind.

Sure, Bruticus will have to disassemble for his components to refuel, and two of them are Air Cybertronian, but the fact there are five men in him, which means five times the amount of sludge food to ration between them, has put the urgency of such a dock below that for Ground crafts.

Prowl hates it when logic supports the solution he dislikes, but, as with all other emotions, there's nothing he can do about it.

Besides, if even only one of the Combiner's components manages to get its charge to full, it can then be shared with the other four upon assembly, and the same can be said about stocking human supplies, since all five pilots are in Bruticus' head after it combines, so it is, essentially, as if they were in the same room.

It won't be as easy for the other four.

Which is why, against his feelings but following logic, it was decided to prioritize the Ground Cybertronian's dock after the two Tetrajets fell on the first battle.

The next gulp of coffee feels bitter in a way that has nothing to do with the beverage's natural flavor, and he has to fight to keep a disgusted grimace hidden.

Soundwave shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he looks at the new notes, and if their mug-free hands touch for an instant, no one bothers to notice it.

"Doughnuts, anyone?" Buzz calls loudly from the door, carrying a tray full of differently sprinkled pastries and a big and proud smile on his face. "The cooks let Rowan and I help, so I can give you a firsthand report about them not being poisoned." He adds chirpily as he gets to his brother and uncle's side to let them get some.

"Not poisoned by _them_. Who's to say you haven't mixed some kind of experimental sweetener that will make our tongues turn blue, or something?" Dexter jokes as he looks over the food with a mocking suspicious look.

"Don't eat them, if you're so paranoid. More for the rest." The teenager answers easily, pointing at some chocolate-covered ones when Ralph looks pleadingly up at him. "Those have strawberry jam inside, made just for you." The youngest squeals happily and quickly grabs one, moaning loudly when he takes a big first bite. "You're welcome, little bro!"

Two loud beeps make them all look at the screen, where the darker-colored Cybertronian flickers some more before finally disappearing, the bubble attached to it closing a second later.

The silence that fills the bridge is deafening.

Ralph breaks it with pitiful whimpering, looking down at his bitten doughnut with tear-filled big eyes.

"Hey, come here, kiddo." Dexter whispers softly, though sounding loud in the uncomfortable silence, as he pulls his nephew into a hug. "It's alright, it's alright. We'll get them back, and then you can tell them how good the strawberry doughnuts are, and you can all go bully Buzz and Rowan into making more, alright?" The child sobs loudly, pressing closer, and Soundwave approaches them silently.

His older son, looking at the tray in his hands as if it had betrayed him, looks up at his father with tears falling down his cheeks.

"Will we really get them back?" He chokes out, and the Third in Command rests his hands on his shoulders softly, yet with firm determination.

"We won't stop trying." He answers simply, and, despite its vagueness, it seems to calm the boys. "But to do that, you need to be strong. You need to eat."

Ralph, who has pulled himself away from his uncle, looks at the pastry in his hands doubtfully, his reddened eyes standing out more as he pales and grimaces.

Buzz, on the other hand, looks at the doughnuts with his brows furrowed in thought.

And then, he grabs a simple sugar-sprinkled one and hands it to his father.

"The cooks said sugar is the brain's energy source." He says simply as the man tilts his head in question, looking almost timidly up at him.

Soundwave's smile is small but warm as he accepts the pastry and bites into it, nodding once he's swallowed it in thanks.

"Bring another sugar one for me." The Second in Command calls easily before taking another sip of his coffee, and the young Sanders beams at him.

"I want that blue one. Why is it blue?" He hears Dexter ask as the Third in Command gets to his side with the requested doughnut, handing it to him before taking his own mug.

"You'll have to try it to know." Buzz answers in a singsong tone, and Ralph's snickering is easily recognizable even with the cherry-blond whining.

"Do you have another strawberry-filled one for me?" Raleigh asks calmly, to which the youngest Sanders yelps in mock horror.

Prowl tunes their bickering and joking out, all his attention on the blueprints in front of them, as he puts on his own set of headphones to join the conversation between Civilian Dock 3, the _Nemesis_'s bridge and the Military Base's labs, where the Civilian Science team is trying to find a solution to the malfunctioning energy converter with what Hook is telling them.

Almost all of his coffee and half his doughnut are gone, thanks to a lot of force-feeding against his rebelling stomach, when Jackson starts to ramble excitedly about so many technical concepts that Prowl can't do more than just stare dumbly at the table and blink.

Fortunately for him, the other three high ranking officers are equally lost, though some look more stunned than others, seeing that Soundwave hasn't let his emotionless mask down despite the confusion almost physically radiating from him.

"_Yeah, you're right!_" Hook exclaims happily from the other side, something that would have been missed among the long and unknown words if it wasn't for the different voice, and, a couple of curses later, the converter turns yellow.

"Can you tell us what you just did _in layman terms_?" Storm asks calmly, and they can hear snickering through the comm, though there's no knowing who is the one responsible.

"_I changed some details of the energy flow. It will take longer for the Cybertronian to get fully refueled, but it should work once we put all the connections in place._" The scientist answers proudly, loud tinkering easily heard through the comm. "_Now that we're over this, getting the Tetrajet dock ready will take half the—_" A loud explosion forces them to take off their headphones with pained yells, the cursing coming from them still easily heard and understandable despite their ringing ears and the fact the devices are all piled on the projector as they try to clear their hearing.

"What the frag?!" Prowl shouts, his own voice sounding distorted, as he rubs his audials.

"What happened?!" Storm and Prime demand at once, glaring at the heap of headphones still spouting colorful swears.

"Sirs?" Dexter calls, all three Sanders plus Phillips and Allen staring at them in confusion and slight worry, Buzz nowhere to be seen, most likely off to hand over the rest of doughnuts.

"The converter _what_?" The Supreme Commander hisses menacingly, and Prowl finds he has managed to put on his headphones again, Soundwave temptingly taking his once they stay quieter.

"—_backfired, and the main converter exploded._" The Second in Command manages to catch when he puts on his own, Hook's growling promising certain death to whoever is responsible. "_Those things should have undergone a maintenance check barely a week ago, it _shouldn't_ have happened!_"

"And you didn't make sure they were in top condition before starting all this?" Prime asks darkly, worry and anger warring in his features.

"_What for? We didn't need to modify the main converter, only the secondary ones. And those things are supposed to have security measures against backfired charges. Do you know how many times do the secondary ones send extra charge back to the main ones? _Every fucking time a Cybertronian docks and takes off_! There should have been thrice the amount of fail-safes than in the _Nemesis_ to avoid something like this! That fucking mess shouldn't—!_" A garbled voice shouts something from someplace further from Hook, and the next time Prowl pulls slightly away his headphones is to avoid the full strength of his enraged roar. "_—the _fuck_ you mean it was a rusted gear?! There couldn't be rusted gears if that thing had undergone its check _a week ago_!_"

"_Hook_! Shut up for a minute!" The Supreme Commander barks loudly and the Second in Command puts his headphones back in place to protect his ears from _him_. "What does this mean for the docks? When will they be ready?"

The silence is so intense that, for a moment, the green-eyed man fears he's finally gone deaf with all the loud noises.

But then, there's some whispering through comm, and he tenses.

"_Hook? How badly damaged is the main converter?_" Thorn asks calmly, though authoritatively, and someone lets out a long and tired sigh ended in a soft sob.

"_Bad enough to pull us behind schedule, but not so much that it would be better to try to modify other docks. I'll need some parts from another of the converters, though, so if you can get Blake and tell him to come fetch Tom, that would be helpful._"

"Wouldn't it be better to bring a fully functional converter and replace it?" Prowl asks, looking at the deactivated projection with the same intensity as if it was still there.

"_Do you know how big and complex those things are? It'd take a full day to get rid of this one and another to install the new! Not to talk about all the calibrating we would need to do! No, just bring the needed parts. Changing them and replacing the fried wiring will take twenty to twenty-four hours, and the fine tuning won't be more than another two. And _then_, we will have to test the secondary converter _again_, and hope nothing blows up _again_._" A frustrated huff sounds loudly through the comm, and Second and Third exchange looks of hidden despair. "_I'm sorry, Commander. I'm going as fast as I can._" The scientist adds sadly, tinkering and clanking starting to grow louder from his side of the line.

"Just keep working, O'Hara. And take care of yourselves." Storm answers tiredly, rubbing his forehead, before looking at the screen.

The four deep azure dots seem to be staring at them pleadingly.

Prowl can feel the helplessness widening the gaping emptiness filling his chest.

Soundwave squeezes his hand and he returns the gesture before looking down at the projector once more, pulling up the recording of the last battle to go over possible strategies for the remaining pilots to use.

A bright red visor meets equally bright blue optics before they get to work.

* * *

**AN:** Title based on the third of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the one with the weighing scales and riding a black horse, and whom I know as 'Famine'.

And another piece in place. Three down, one to go.

**Angel Heart:** Nice to read from you again, I was a bit worried you wouldn't find about the extra chapters until the weekend.

About the review to chapter 15 (The White Horse): I'm glad you have your own ideas, though I can't promise anything about things happening or not :P And I'm not sure if dreaming about them is nice or not, least of all when I don't have time to read in the morning XP I'm glad to hear that about science and hope, so thanks for letting me know :) I hope this chapter helped with that thing about being stuck outside, even if it hasn't really helped...

About the review to chapter 16 (The Red Horse): The conversation with Iacon had been building up for some chapters, as well as Sebastien Prime's appearance, so I'm glad it worked out as I wanted. I'm happy you enjoyed the 'wordplay' ;) As for the repairs and everything... Well, I hope this chapter has answered some.

Oh, by the way, I'm going to post tomorrow and Friday too, though I'm not sure about Saturday.

Thanks for everything and hope to read from you later!


	18. The Ashen Horse

He doesn't know where he is.

He doesn't know what time it is, what day, or what year.

He doesn't know what has woken him up.

"—_imity alert! Repeat, Black Beast proximity alert!_"

Oh, that.

And the frantic and worried pushing and prodding deep in his chest that feels almost as if someone has him by the shoulders and is shaking him harshly while shouting at him to—

—_wake up, frag it all!_

Yeah, like that.

_Starscream!_

Huh?

"_Air Commander? It would be a good time for you to wake up!_" A rough and slightly crackling voice booms from seemingly all around him, and he forces open his eyes.

Darkness.

_You need to get ready or you'll be killed._

My, and that would be a bad thing, wouldn't it?

_It would!_

He winces at the flare in his chest and the stab at his processor, but it works as well as a slap to the face after waking up with a hangover.

The cockpit stinks, badly, because of him having been forced to use the ground as toilet, but he doesn't pay it more attention than the needed to grimace, one arm bringing screens, scanners, radar, lidar and weapons online, though he keeps the last ones on standby and the range of the rest to the minimum.

"'M up." He croaks roughly, dry coughs ravaging his throat, but his attention doesn't stray from the two red dots that have just appeared on his screen.

"_Getting used to sleeping in, Reeds?_" Storm's voice grumbles through the comm, the warmth in his chest almost crowning in relief as he acknowledges it with a hint of annoyance at its impatience.

No, not its.

His.

_Soundwave, I'm going to set your alarm to go off at three in the morning when I get back. No, better yet, I'm going to pour a bucket full of icy water on your head at _three in the morning_._

He can feel the Third in Command laugh at that.

"_Got a Point Heavy on the right and a Runner on the left. They don't seem to be in any hurry._" Law summarizes, his voice not as scratchy as his, but the dryness in his throat still noticeable.

"We wait?" The Air Commander asks, confused, because they are supposed to use as little energy as possible, so not moving looks like the best plan.

"_I wouldn't give them much more time—_"

"_They look like scouts._" And that would be Prowl.

Brave mech, cutting Storm off like that.

"_Scouts?_"

"_They're going slow, almost like making sure the coast is clear… They must think Commander Reeds and Bruticus aren't—_functional_ anymore. That may be a good chance to let them approach and deal with them with one swipe._" The bridge is silent after that, and so is the Combiner team.

And they couldn't let him sleep because…

Soundwave reprimands him with a harsh yet small pinprick, and he winces silently.

Frag it all, once he gets back he will make him pay for that.

Worry floods him, and he has to take a moment to decipher what the other is asking.

He's moody and irritable because he has been woken up to stare at two unmoving red dots on a screen.

He wants to get back to sleep because staring at two unmoving red dots on a screen is boring and makes his eyes itch, and because he's tired.

And he's tired because… huh, because… Well, because _he's tired_!

The worry increases, but he has no chance to reply as the Runner shoots towards Bruticus' feet, the Point Heavy following a second later—

When they get close enough, the Combiner _kicks them away_.

He has to activate his engine for a nanoklik to avoid falling from the gigantic Cybertronian's shoulder, but otherwise, it has gone well.

He hasn't needed to do anything, just sit there and watch two streaks of red fly away while not being fliers.

He can't help but snicker in dark amusement.

"_That's it?_" Someone—sounds like Dexter Sanders, but he isn't really sure—asks awkwardly through the silence that has fallen over the comm. "_They just… got kicked away, and game over?_"

Silence.

Starscream snickers again.

He can hear Nielsen start to laugh softly, too, and, soon enough, the five Combiner members and the Air Commander are almost rolling around in a bout of mad laughter.

Almost, because when he actually tries to move his stiff body in the not-so-longer comfy seat, his world is set _on fire_.

He can't understand the loud voices through his agonized wails, splotches of color dancing on the inside of his tightly closed eyelids as he feels like his arm and leg are about to fall off, like thousands of Scraplets are eating through his limbs and moving higher, higher, _higher_—

The presence in his chest is shrieking madly, pushing and prodding with even more intensity every time and, as he feels his still attached and intact arm with his not burning hand, he focuses on it to ground himself, to get rid of the pain—

The presence strengthens, almost visibly brightening, and words start to make sense again.

"—_it all, answer me! You need to tell me what's going on for me to help!_"

_Ryan Shepherd_, the presence supplies, and his own mind identifies the name with a white haired man wearing a white lab coat—no, a _doctor_'s coat.

"Hurts." He sobs, sight blurry despite there being no tears, for his body is no longer capable of producing them. "Arm a-a-and—and leg." He whines, stiffening in the seat when the pain returns, his whole body protesting the gesture.

"_Arm and leg? What arm and—Oh._"

"_Oh? What do you mean, 'oh'?_" Storm demands, and, thanks to the pres—_Soundwave_, he manages to focus enough to finally push the most pressing pain away.

"_The broken arm and leg. He went through surgery to have them fixed and… and the circumstances haven't helped the healing process. The wounds were deep, no mere scars, so don't start with the 'it has been long enough for him to heal' thing. Lack of proper nutrition and water aren't good for healing wounds, least of all with the situation they're in. I'm surprised he's managed to keep it in check for so long._" Fully aware once more, Starscream can only grimace at the explanation.

Just. Great.

"_Incoming alert!_" Another voice—Greg Allen? Must be him, no one in the Military sounds that hysterical because of an alert—squeals, and, soon enough, he can see the red dots on his radar.

Too soon.

Three Aerials.

Cursing loudly, and keeping further cries in as he gets into a ready position, he watches them approach—

One vanishes just to reappear in front of his Tetrajet, but he's been moving since it popped out of his sensors.

Falling backwards along Bruticus' back-struts, he opens his wings with a painful movement and glides away from the now moving Combiner.

There are no Ground Cybertronian anymore.

He can't help but wonder when they lost them—and quickly push the thought away when he realizes it wasn't in any battle, like _the one he's in now, so concentrate, frag it!_

Scowling to keep the fiery agony at bay, he turns quickly to avoid another of the Aerial, his new trajectory bringing him under Bruticus' feet with the Black Beast still pursuing.

"Kick left foot in two!" He orders, voice shrill and painful to his ears, and he can only hope Law has gotten his message—

When, two seconds later, the Combiner kicks his left leg out, catching the Aerial he has purposely led there, he knows he was heard.

Only one Aerial is left but, as he flies back to Bruticus' shoulder level, it goes away.

From his scans, at least.

When the _Nemesis_ confirms it has truly retired, he lands gracefully back on his perch and rests against the back of his seat, carefully getting his blazing arm into a more comfortable position.

"Told you I was the best, Grant. Next time, you better watch those turns, Ted." He admonishes his wingmates softly, tiredness setting in, before he turns weapons and scans offline and puts the comm in standby.

Seriously, for him to have to do all the work with a half eaten leg and arm…

* * *

Panicking clearly, Soundwave can't do more than whimper softly when Prowl puts a hand on his shoulder.

That… hasn't gone well.

In fact, it has been an utter and complete disaster.

And now, they know the Black Beasts are testing them, trying to see when their only remaining two guardians will finally stop fighting.

Which doesn't seem too far off, if Starscream keeps getting worse.

"_That wasn't good, was it?_" Law asks softly, worried mutterings in the background.

"Not at all. Are all of you alright?" Shepherd questions, shaken and almost fuming at the helpless situation they're in.

"_Thirsty, hungry and not literally sick of the stench of our own waste, but still coherent and up to date. We're going back to standby, if that will be all._" The medic nods but, since they can't see the gesture, Storm just orders them to do so.

A second later, the comm falls completely silent as they obey.

"It's been only five days, should he be hallucinating?" Prime asks quietly, and Soundwave forces himself to calm down and pay attention to the medic instead of the dim presence brushing his conscience, reaching for him almost lazily one second and desperately the next as Starscream dreams.

Or so he thinks. He doesn't want to consider the possibility of him being awake and rambling to his dead wingmates in the confines of the Tetrajet's cockpit.

"Taking into account all the factors at work… I'm afraid so. And his deterioration will just worsen with each passing hour." Shepherd answers, and the Third in Command shudders almost violently, hugging himself to keep a wave of coldness away.

Inside, he can feel Starscream pushing warmth to him along worry, and he barely chokes down a sob.

Does he know what he's doing? Does he know who Soundwave is?

Prowl squeezes his shoulder and guides him out of the bridge.

They walk in silence, the Second's hand never leaving him, supporting him silently like he's done with the Enforcer these last days, and, slowly, he puts himself back together.

When he finally realizes where they are, they have arrived at the Med Bay's door.

Prowl tries to walk by, but he grabs his arm to stop him.

After a look, they silently enter and navigate the hallways with ease until reaching their by now familiar destination.

Jazz's room is as white and cold as always, and the man himself is still but for the rise and fall of his chest.

The heart-monitor beeps.

Without prompting, Prowl sits down on the chair by the bed and takes the prone man's limp hand into his.

Slower, and feeling warmer thanks to Starscream, Soundwave follows, stopping behind the Civilian Second to rest a hand on a shoulder.

"Have you tried calling him?" He asks softly, and the other man tenses, but doesn't look up.

"What good would it do?"

"But have you tried it?"

Silence.

"I can't feel him…" He can feel the defeat, and the '_why should I call when no one's there to answer_' is so loud it could have been said aloud.

"Because maybe he's just in a very deep sleep." This time, Prowl looks up, eyes shining in surprise and suspicion.

"That's how you got to Starscream on the bridge." He whispers softly, and the TIC nods while sending a questioning pulse to his heart-brother, who returns mild annoyance and the feeling of a cat curled in front of a lit hearth. "Do you think it might work?"

"We won't know until you try."

This time, the silence is charged and, like another situation so seemingly long ago in this same Med Bay, Soundwave remembers lightning.

Starscream's giddiness as he recalls the feeling of flying through a typhoon makes him smile, even though he doesn't remember such meteorological phenomenon ever hitting the Protectodome.

The monitor beeps again.

And again.

Confused by the closeness of the sounds, the Third in Command looks at it—

The heart rate increases again and, on the bed, the dark skinned man twitches and frowns.

"Jazz?" Prowl whispers, and the hand he keeps on the Second's shoulder squeezes with wonder and growing hope. "Jazz, can you hear me? You need to wake up." Starscream sends the questioning feeling this time, and he can only turn his growing hope back at him.

Jazz moans softly as he tosses a bit, and Prowl stands up to lean over the bed.

"Come on, Jazz, time to wake up. There are no more reports to be done, I promise."

"Jazz, it's Soundwave, can you hear me?" He whispers when the Head of Spec Ops twitches again at his superior officer's voice. "Listen to Prowl, you have to wake up." Hope grows across the link with the Air Commander, and it is pure and clear and without hint of the delirium from before, so the Third in Command almost sobs in relief, trying to pull the presence closer. "Starscream wants you to wake up too." He adds, voice sounding choked, and the warmth sent to him this time is directed to _Soundwave_, only, exclusively, and completely conscious of who he is.

Prowl looks at him with surprise, and, taking his sunglasses off, he gives the man as bright a smile as he's able to.

The Second in Command relaxes, looking younger now that he isn't coiled in fear and tension, and beams back before turning to his heart-brother to caress a dark cheek.

"We're here for you, Jazz. 'Til all are one."

The Head of Special Operations springs to a sitting position with a loud horrified scream, so fast and suddenly that Prowl is sent back with a surprised yelp, slamming into the Third in Command and sending them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Starscream starts laughing when he feels his astonishment.

Panting heavily and clutching the sheets in tight fists, Jazz's black eyes stay unfocused as his trembling dies down.

When he manages to get over his surprise, Prowl stands quickly and embraces his fellow Enforcer.

More calmly, Soundwave gets to his feet and smiles softly when he sees the dark skinned man burrow his head in his heart-brother's neck, muttering his name over and over.

Suddenly opening bright blue eyes, the Head of Spec Ops pulls away from the embrace, an almost crazy smile on his face.

"I know where they are." The words are whispered, but the meaning in them isn't lost to the other two.

'They', as in the ones behind all this.

And 'this', as in wrong names and fake memories.

Soundwave's heart skips a beat, but Starscream's urging to get more information quickly gets him out of his shock.

"How?"

"I saw them! They were there, working on me, pulling things into my head—and I know where they had me! We need to go, quick!" He answers, mad grin dying into a hateful glare that turns into determination burning with a blue flame.

When Prowl turns around and looks at him with equally blazing blue eyes, he knows what they have to do.

Soundwave hurries to get some of Prowl's spare clothes, which will fit Jazz better than his own, since he's taller, while the Second helps the Head of Spec Ops get rid of drips and monitoring wires and to become used to his body again after five days in stasis lock.

When he gets back and they are all ready to go, alarms start blazing.

A wave of ice cold pain and fear and dread slams into him, and he hunches into himself with a breathless gasp, the two Civilian officers helping him stay on his feet, though not asking what's going on.

There's no need.

"Three attacks on a day? What's going on with those monsters?" Prowl growls loudly as they hurry to the bridge—

Soundwave stops them by grabbing their arms.

Confused, they turn to him, but of course they're confused, they can't feel it, can't feel Starscream's fear, and the ever growing pain of his not-healed limbs, and the _something_ that is tugging at him and that the TIC is starting to feel too, but not as an echo—

"You need to go."

"What?!" He shakes them almost harshly to silence the protests already sounding loudly in his processor.

"You need to _go_! You need to get them before they get away, or we won't have another chance!"

_Where did that come from?_

Nevertheless, he knows it's true, and Jazz's paling features only support his words.

"So go, get them. Stop this madness. I'm going to help Starscream win us some more time."

He can almost see the bright red from his optics reflected in their crystalline blue, hot fire to roar and burn and keep away the beasts, and cold fire to burn undetected under the ashes, going further, deeper, until it gets what it's seeking and _flares_, consuming everything in its path along its red brother.

They run again, Soundwave to the bridge, and Prowl and Jazz to the exit.

He rushes inside without caring for the science team being there instead of down at the labs, without caring for the way Allen jumps with a shriek at him suddenly bending over his shoulder to reclaim his Communications Officer's headphones, left alone until Raleigh, wherever he is, gets there, without caring about Storm and Prime's surprised stares.

Without caring for the glasses he's left forgotten on a Med Bay bed, because this time he doesn't need masks, not when Starscream is the one on the other end of the line, not when the time to hide is over, and the time to act has come.

Jazz and Prowl have their mission.

They have their own.

"I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me." He whispers once he has the headphones in place, usually monotone voice now almost scorching with emotion, like a lonely mountain revealing itself a volcano, letting a sharp smirk on his features that forces everyone around him to take a step back in fear.

"_There was nothing in sight, but memories left abandoned._" Starscream counters, voice shrill and cracked but steely with determination, as he uses the windy day, the strong wind currents the Third in Command can almost feel through the Air Commander, to his advantage when he tricks an Aerial into a maneuver that throws its control away and ends with its signal being lost as it crashes.

"I remembered each flash, as time began to blur." He adds, voice lowering almost menacingly, his smirk widening when a Point Heavy is tricked into getting too close to a seemingly occupied Bruticus, only to be stomped on.

"_There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow._" The barrel roll is flawlessly performed, even in the nosedive he's in, and the Aerial falls on top of a Runner when it doesn't manage to pull up in time.

"Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me." A quick look is more than enough to stop a worried Shepherd in his tracks, eyes wide in fear at what he knows must look like a madman's—_madmech's—_wide grin, laughter bubbling in his chest.

"_And the ground caved in between where we were standing._" Engaging his weapons at the last possible moment, the Grounder Black Beast is blasted into oblivion at the unexpected assault, a burst of powerful engines getting the Tetrajet high in the air before the two approaching ones can retaliate, his own wide feral smirk and laughter clearly heard through the comm.

"_And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve._" They speak in unison, and feel power course through their bodies, the wind on their wings, the computers at their processor's mercy, one heart in two bodies, one goal in their servos—

And Jazz and Prowl's.

When the completely healed Air Giant appears onscreen, half a dozen of normal-sized Black Beasts flanking it, the rest of those on the bridge cry out in dismay.

Starscream and Soundwave just smirk wider, relax their linkages and charge their weapons, eyes blazing like an exploding supernova.

_'Til all are one._

* * *

The streets are mostly empty, and the few members of the Military taking care of clean up are out of the main streets, which is a blessing, since Jazz is driving as fast as his high performance hover-car allows, which, to put it mildly, is _a lot_.

Prowl would be panicking in the passenger seat if he didn't have the seat-belt on and wasn't so focused on their goal that he would have driven even faster if it was mechanically possible.

Jazz snickers as his boss glares at him, knowing too well that he knows exactly what's going through his mind.

"If you know how much I want you to hurry, why _don't you_?" The now blue-eyed man hisses menacingly, and he can almost see how his—whatever the things on his back that aren't there but should would be standing on a tense 'V' in annoyance.

"This engine can't run faster, Prowler! So get your cooling fans on and that processor debugged, 'cause we're almoooooooost—_here_!" The brakes screech loudly as the car stops with a lurch, lifting over one side to stand almost vertically, but both men have already taken off their seat-belts and jumped out.

For a second, they can just stare at the broken building, its almost regal facade now covered in cracks and missing glass and looking menacing instead of reassuring.

Jazz thinks it's strangely fitting.

The hover-car slams back down on the ground, lifting a big enough cloud of dust to hide both men in it.

If they had stayed put, that is.

The loud crash has been the last push needed for them to throw their cheeriness and logical thinking away into the dust, determination and righteous fury driving them as they rush into the Civilian Government building.

Prowl stays a step behind the Head of Spec Ops, letting him guide the way, though they both move quickly and silently as ghosts.

He feels the confusion of the Second in Command when he stops in front of the crashed elevator, its doors hanging to the sides to reveal the half-crushed car.

After exchanging a glance, Prowl takes a look around and quickly locates what they need.

Helping him hook the broken crossbeam under the wrecked car, they both grunt when, using all their strength, they manage to lift it.

With a sharp kick, Jazz gets a steel cabinet in the now cleared space and, without wasting a second, dives into it.

The cabinet groans at the weight starting to deform it, but he isn't Head of Special Operations for anything, so he has the hidden trapdoor ripped off its hinges and thrown away so fast that, when Prowl follows him into a basement that shouldn't exist, they still have time to spare before the elevator flattens it and reveals their presence with a loud slam.

Using every second they have until then, and the link and knowledge that allows wordless communication between them, they stalk through the dimly lit dead-gray corridor, only lacking dripping sounds to be taken out of a cliche horror movie.

Jazz doesn't look into the rooms and smaller corridors they walk past, already knowing what's there, but Prowl does, and he feels every hint of horror, of disgust, every wince and silent gasp—

The sound of the elevator crashing to the ground echoes loudly.

Their cover is blown.

And so, Prowl's next pained gasp isn't soundless.

When Jazz looks at what has his heart-brother frozen, he can only see an empty room.

No, not empty. There are a couple of shackles welded to the middle of the opposite wall, their metal rusted, as is that of the floor immediately under them—

"I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me." Blue meet blue, and he slowly follows a less shocked and more enraged Prowl down the corridor, stance straight but footsteps still silent.

And he feels the same rage burning through the other's circuits start to course though his own as he remembers a breakdown from a point of view not his own.

"There was nothing inside, but memories left abandoned." He replies, voice low and cadence meticulously adjusted to only minute changes, making him sound emotionless yet obviously emotion-filled, as he can almost hear the moans and wails in an over-filled medical tent.

"I remembered each flash, as time began to blur." Prowl's whatever should be on his back would have fanned to the sides, making him look bigger, more menacing, but, since he doesn't have them, his almost white blazing blue eyes convey his emotions well enough.

Frantic voices echo from the last door on the corridor, open just a sliver to let a trickle of light onto the gray walls.

"There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow." He makes sure his voice carries, and the voices stop for a second before starting again, talking quicker and higher pitched.

"Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me." The kick has been calculated to rip the door from its hinges, so the metallic slab falls in front of Sebastien Prime and his Military and Civilian SICs and TICs with a loud and reverberating clanking.

"And the ground caved in between where we were standing." Jazz follows with an almost smile, and the faces staring at them distort in rage, laughter, bitterness and doubt, respectively, but Prime's snarl is the perfect picture of Death, the light from the machines and screens covering the walls making his skin seem white, his hair green and his eyeballs pitch black.

"What are you doing?! You shall serve me for all eternity! You shall do my biding until I order you scrapped! You shan't rebel against me!" The five men screech in unison, but Jazz and Prowl don't waver, don't look away, don't change their emotionless yet raging stances and expressions.

"_And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve._" They speak in unison, lifting the guns they grabbed before starting the hover-car's engine, the ones Jazz always keeps safely tucked under his trunk's fake bottom, and feel power course through their bodies, the weight of familiar weapons in their grasp, every possible strategy and counter running through their processor, one heart in two bodies, one goal in their servos—

And Starscream and Soundwave's.

When the faces before them seem to change their very features, a big semi-cylindrical white shape starting to become visible behind Prime, the machines start beeping in alarm.

Jazz and Prowl just let their faces become completely emotionless, relax their linkages and charge their weapons, eyes blazing like an exploding supernova.

_'Til all are one._

* * *

**AN:** Title based on the fourth of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the one with Hades following him and riding an ashen horse, and whom is known as 'Death'.

So, with that said, lets do Math:

Chapter named after the last horsemen + said horseman's name being Death + characters left in deadly situations + foreboding 'last words' on both fronts = 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 0 = The End

So, that's it, people! Nice having you all join me in this ride, thanks for all the reviews/favourites/alerts and lets hope we meet again.

Bye!

...

...

...

...

You didn't really think I would finish it like that, did you?

Nah, this chapter is far from the end, don't worry! XD It marks the end of a 'Part', if you would say so, but the story simply doesn't want to die, so it will keep going for as long as the ZPBM keeps coming back from the grave.

And sorry about the 'finishing' joke, couldn't resist it after two days without sleep. The 'Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse' arc has really been trying to me, curse it *waves fist*.


	19. Time of Awakening

It takes Optimus Prime some time after his processor reboots for him to clear the static in his visual and audio feeds, and then more to recognize where he is.

Carefully, he pushes the slab of metal off his dust-covered red midsection, the vibrant blue framing it equally dirtied, and gets to his pedes.

His gyros whirl madly at that but, after managing to stay still long enough, they recalibrate.

His uncovered mouth falls open in shock.

The bridge of the _Nemesis_ is a _mess_.

The ceiling has almost completely caved in, and he sends a quick thanks to Primus for there having been no more floors over theirs.

The raised area of the bridge, the one he's on, has been less damaged in comparison to the lower one, which has been covered by debris as the whole structure of the ceiling has given in, burying and crushing all under it.

Their area has suffered too, of course, but not so heavily. Planks and tubing have fallen off, but the crossbeams have staid in place, keeping most of the mass they support still over their helms.

Brightly colored frames are lying on the ground, some in piles and others under fallen junk, but there's no dead gray to be seen.

When the matte black mech by his pedes, with silver faceplate and accents and purple lines, starts to stir with some whirring of joint-gears, Optimus kneels down and takes the chair and lightweight tube off his back.

Megatron looks up at him with confused and lightly flickering red optics, still not fully booted up, and Prime can't help but chuckle and held him down until all systems are fully operative.

"Stubborn mech." He whispers fondly as the other squirms weakly, the lack of fusion cannon making him look small despite the sharp and menacing angles of his shoulder, forearm and foreleg plates.

"What happened?" Megatron groans once fully online, managing to swat his servos off and get to his knees slowly to let his gyros adjust to the change, curiously looking around.

Following his friend's example, the Prime can't help but appreciate the scene in front of him.

Others are starting to come back online, the soft whirring of joints and clinking of metal as they move and get the junk, or their friends, off of themselves slowly filling the soothing silence, though not disturbing the calm, as sunlight reflects brightly on polished metal and tangles with the floating dust.

A dark silver Skyfire with maroon accents lets out a yelp as Wheeljack elbows him harshly, managing to catch one of the three hanging wing partitions between his rounded white forearm plates and the larger mech's side, something that makes the rest press closer to the bigger and less mobile more wing-like pieces on his shoulders, the jolt of pain quickly getting the bigger mech off a pale red and dark gray Perceptor, lacking his shoulder-mounted cannon, and the mad inventor.

Optimus chuckles softly at the confused look the shuttle gives the other two scientists and Wheeljack's mask-less scowl accompanied by a flash of annoyed orange of his longer and curved back helm fins.

"Anyone got the number of the asteroid that slammed into us?" Eject moans from where Blaster, chest compartment compressed almost to non-existence and with a Cybertanium cover seemingly held in place by two claw-like clasps attached to each shoulder plate, is finally lifting himself off the Cassettes, who are almost as big as their carrier and have rounder angles and almost the same purplish-blue with white markings color schemes, while Ramhorn and Steeljaw, both bulkier and colored tarnished gold and brown red, respectively, get parts of the broken communications console off them as a matte black with dark silver forearm and foreleg plating humanoid Ravage helps the small Cybertronian get out from under the red mech's frame.

"Better yet, anyone _blasted_ the asteroid that slammed into us so that it doesn't do so again?" A silver gray Red Alert with red accents and narrower chest plates, and also devoid of his shoulder cannon, growls as he gets to his pedes, tripping when he tries to move without his gyros fully calibrated, and falling on top of a confused dark gray Bluestreak, dark red wide chevron arced back and close to the helm, the same colors of the markings on his chest plates and legs, with a loud clang and twin yelps.

"There's no way an asteroid that has already impacted can do so again." Perceptor answers calmly, though he winces loudly a nanoklik later, when a dazed and fully matte black Sunstorm, longer and thinner wings stretched wide and twitching madly to help him stay upright on impossibly spidery and almost metal-less legs, crushes something as he takes a wavering step.

"Are you sure it was an asteroid? 'Cause I don't see tiny asteroid bits anywhere." Bumblebee pipes in, bright yellow paint marked by black and red on his slightly pointed chest plate and his big and wide forearm plates, helping Ratchet get out from under some tubes, the medic grumbling angrily as he brushes the dust and metallic bits off his frame, paying special attention to all the sensory spheres on his chest and shoulder plates, as well as his curved back black chevron, the red accents on his body looking a dull orange under the dirt.

"I really hope it wasn't an asteroid, because I want to vaporize it _personally_ to return the favor." Megatron growls, getting to his pedes and almost falling when one of his ankle joints refuses to bear any weight. "Slagging thing cracked my _Nemesis_ open like a shell of silicon dioxide."

"Is that Bruticus?" All sounds stop for an instant as they turn to Skyfire, who has managed to get up and is now staring through the open space where the main screen's wall was.

A dense cloud of dust covers the outside, the sunlight bathing it making strange shapes appear and disappear, and drawing attention to the moving particles the wind plays with, but there's one dark shape that doesn't change, vaguely humanoid but distorted by the pale brown thick curtain.

Ratchet walks down the stairs to the lower level, and carefully starts to make his way through the debris.

Slowly, the rest follow.

Helping Megatron maneuver with his damaged ankle-joint, Optimus lets his optics and short range scans roam over the junk, finding the best spots to go through that will support their combined weight, and trying to stay on the medic's trail. He can hear the others follow their lead, too, with Red Alert and Bluestreak moving together to make up for the Praxian's cracked lower leg strut, and Blaster and Bumblebee keeping an optic on the Cassettes.

The way to ground level is surprisingly easy, great slabs and rails littering their surroundings allowing them to just slide down without further worry than not ending faceplate-first on the dirt when their descent stops. Ratchet, Optimus and Megatron are the first to suffer such undignified landings, and the others manage to avoid them thanks to their loud cursing indicating where the ground is, despite the cloud of dust reducing visual range, or, in Sunstorm and the now equally matte black flight-capable Cassettes' case, by flying down slowly, the smaller Cybertronian changing back to their alt modes, that look like Eject and Rewind, to smile smugly at the three dirtier mechs when they land.

The rest of their journey to the giant immobile frame goes by in complete silence, as, awed and respectfully subdued, they walk past gigantic hunks of debris, from almost unscathed slabs imbedded in the ground like metallic monoliths to unrecognizably shattered parts ranging from microns to full kils.

If it wasn't for their chronometers, they would have sworn time doesn't tick by as they walk through the almost heroic stories-like environment.

Bruticus is standing at the very edge of the dust cloud and, by the time they get to his side, the wind has blown away enough of it that they can clearly see the helm when they look upwards.

The Combiner is recognizable but, by the Allspark, Optimus is sure he wouldn't have known who, or even _what_, he is if Skyfire hadn't pointed it out.

He is painted the same matte black as the Seeker and flying Cassettes, but that is the smallest of changes.

His legs are shorter, giving him a stouter, yet equally strong, appearance, more so with the longer and thinner arms ended in sharp clawed dactyls. His torso has also shortened, but his shoulder plates are broad and thick, two menacing cannons on each, and there's strong but flexible-looking armor encasing the joints protectively.

His helm is oval shaped, with sharp wave-like plating where the audials should be.

And that is one of the eeriest and the most astonishing changes.

There is no faceplate.

Not like Shockwave's case, either, because this Bruticus doesn't have faceplate, nor audials, but he doesn't have optics or anything similar either.

The helm is just one big, matte black, horizontally elongated oval shape.

If it wasn't because the wave-like plates are wider on one direction, forming a growing pattern, Optimus wouldn't have even thought there was a front, or a back, to that helm. The way it is attached to the body, so that the ripples occupy the position of the audials, is the only other reason to know.

The foreboding they all feel, though, is because he is completely still, and impossibly silent.

Hard as it is with his new coloring, the Prime still manages to locate the scorches and slashes, not to mention the dents big enough for Bumblebee to curl in.

He is battered, injured, and in a dormant state.

Optimus can't help but worry that they are too late, that the Combiner, the five mechs that form it, is already in a deep stasis-lock.

"_Onslaught_!"

The Autobot leader has to wince at Megatron's bellow, but, as much as he wants to, he doesn't let the injured mech fall from where he's leaning against his shoulder.

The grinding sound of gears is even more painful to his audials, anyway.

Though he wouldn't change it for anything on Cybertron, as the cogs turning are the Combaticons', slowly disassembling their Combined form.

And, without any remnant of strength or grace, the five of them fall to the ground, lifting smaller clouds of dust.

Only Onslaught, the same matte black as his gestalt-mates and with big and thick shoulder, chest, foreleg and forearm plating, as well as a folded twin barreled cannon on his back, moves once they've finally separated, and it is to force himself to a kneeling position.

Ratchet is by his side faster than Optimus' optics go through a quick reboot.

The Combiner leader grasps his servo tightly, stopping the medic, and, shakily, points at something on the opposite direction they've come from.

Prime's spark stops its pulsing as he sees the dark shapes approaching, the light of the raising sun from their backs making it impossible to identify them.

Sunstorm is in front of their group as soon as he sees them, his long and thin and extremely mobile wings flaring wide open at their highest setting, vertical to the body, with the flaps on both leading and trailing edges stretched as widely as possible from the wings' main bodies, and the blade-like gliding flaps glinting menacingly as the sun trails over their sharp edges.

Despite the light bathing them, the bright blue sensor circles glow visibly and menacingly, both those on the wings and the ones on his back and forearms.

There's a low humming roar coming from him, and the dust around his tridactyle spidery talons starts to slowly be blown away by the deceivingly powerful engines that are his legs.

"Oh, stop that, you idiot!"

They all startle at the voice, though non as badly as Sunstorm himself, as a more easily recognizable winged frame boosts ahead of the group of dark shapes.

Closer to them, their optics manage to deflect enough light to see the details in those thruster-heeled pedes, the flaps on those Tetrajet wings attached to the back and sides of the shoulder plates, the softer angles of the structures growing from the sides of the main back-strut and framing the helm clearly recognized as shoulder vents, their function much clearer than the matte black Seeker's vent-positioned pointy ended half cylinders.

And the smirk, trying to be small and cocky but being full of happiness and relief, and shining almost as brightly as those red optics and neon-like shade of green that is the main color of—

"Acid Storm?"

Before Sunstorm can say or do anything else, the truly yet slightly different Cybertonian-looking Seeker stops in front of his Trine-mate and engulfs him in a plate-denting hug.

"Who else, you psycho?" The green Flier whispers warmly, wings quivering with strong emotions, and it doesn't take long for the now black one to return the embrace.

"Optimus?"

At his name, the Prime turns to where the black shapes have come close enough to become visible, and he immediately knows who has called him.

The shape is different than the one he remembers, with obviously thicker plating, big overlapping armor pieces covering his torso and tall shoulder plates that rise at the back in a poor imitation of doorwings, two large cannons mounted on each forearm, darker red coloration, anti-gravs instead of wheels, and no sign of glass, plastic or rubber.

But the blue optics are exactly the same.

"Ironhide."

The Weapons Specialist smiles in relief at his designation and, once a thicker-plated Shockwave, with tank treads on the outside of his legs and at the back of his shoulder plates, glowing golden glass-metal chest plate, and a second servo under the nozzle coming out the front of his large left forearm, helps relieve him of Megatron's weight, his fellow Autobot officer embraces him so tightly that he feels his back-struts squeak.

He just laughs and returns the gesture.

"Calm down, old friend. I don't wish to have my struts pushed out of alignment."

Ironhide's gruff laugh answers him as the mech releases him and steps back.

Before he can ask where his extreme reaction has come from, two small and matte black frames rush past him.

He whirls around just in time to see Blaster tackled to the ground by what look like modified versions of Frenzy and Rumble, similar to the alt modes of their flying brothers, and the rest of Cassettes join the pile as soon as the boombox's squeal of surprise turns to one of joy.

Ravage is the only one who stays on the edge of the tangle of limbs, but as soon as the Decepticon Cassette twins call his designation, he happily pounces on the red mech to join on the hug-fest.

"Hey, little pests! How about me?" The Autobot leader looks over his shoulder at the laughing voice, finding two Sunstorm-like matte black Seekers landing near the other two, though one with a wide mischievous grin and purple lines on his wings, and the other with a calmer look on his faceplate and blue stripes on wings and legs.

"Skywarp!" The purple-lined mech laughs loudly as the three flight-capable Cassettes slam into him, just embracing them back.

"Glad to see you too, mechlings!"

"So, what happened?" He asks Ironhide as he watches some more Autobots and Decepticons finally reach the Protectodome group and effusively greet them, with the exception of a long-armed Scrapper with many thin and variable dactyls, a thick armed and legged Long Haul with big shoulder plates, a slender-looking Scavenger with larger arms and sharp-angled legs, and a First Aid with thick forearm and foreleg plating and big chest plates, all carrying medical supplies and Energon cubes as they hurry to help Ratchet with the damaged and depleted Combaticons.

"Oh, yeah, that's right. You guys don't remember anything." The Weapons Specialist scowls and looks at where Megatron and Shockwave, still supporting his leader, are attentively watching him. "Hey! Listen, all of you, 'cause I'm not repeating this twice!" All Cybertronian turn to the red mech, the ones who'd been in the _Nemesis_ with Optimus looking as confused and curious as him, while the rest turn somber. "The reason why all of you have been living in that dome thing, and acting like you've did, and all of that slag, is 'cause you were taken in and reprogrammed by a bunch of psycho aliens."

Silence.

"And that's why you should be the one explaining." Ironhide grumbles at all the bewildered looks he's receiving, turning to look at Shockwave with an annoyance that is almost casual.

Almost… casual…

Why does it feel wrong?

Optimus tenses sharply, and sees Megatron do the same, as he recalls Cybertron, the War, the Autobots' wish for freedom against the Decepticons' drive for conquest, the _Ark_, the crash, _Earth_—

They are enemies.

Ironhide has a forearm-mounted cannon pointed at him before he even has the chance to move.

Immobile in the face of the charged weapon, the Prime slowly becomes aware of the rest of the Autobots and Decepticons, the ones that weren't with him in the Protectodome, also pointing their weapons at the finally aware of the Civil War Cybertronian.

"Not a move. We've got a truce going on, so you're going to stay still and let us explain everything before you decide anything, understood?" The Weapons Specialist growls and, after a quick glance to see a dumbstruck Megatron with Shockwave's charged cannon nozzle pressed against his chest plates, just over his spark chamber, he nods.

Ironhide lowers the weapon, though he doesn't diffuse the charge, before tilting his helm towards the mono-optic mech.

"Care to explain things to them?"

"This will be hard for Sunstorm." The logic-following Cybertronian answers simply, and Acid Storm, who has one of his own arm-mounted cannons against the mentioned Seeker's chest plates, lets a low annoyed rumble of his turbines be heard.

"Just explain. Sunstorm can say Primus was the one to give us sentience." The green mech answers with a dark scowl that isn't focused on anyone in sight.

"What did you say about—?!"

"Mute it and let Shockwave explain." Thundercracker cuts the completely matte black Flier, who snarls at him with a humming rumble of his own engines, but obeys.

"Long before the first Cybertronian records, a technorganic race created robots as consumer and military goods." The purple mech begins calmly, never moving his cannon a single micron from his leader's torso, nor letting his optic look away from the blazing red ones. "They even had a whole planet as a factory for their production. Unfortunately for them, their servants gained a life of their own, sentience, and rebelled. Masters lost against their slaves, and, defeated, they abandoned their factory planet, leaving it to their former servants, to those who had, by an unknown reason, gained a spark." Optimus' processor stops all activity before, with a quick reboot of his optics, all the pieces click into place.

Shockwave finally lowers his cannon and, along all the others, diffuses the charge as the rest put their weapons away.

"The masters' race were the creatures called Quintessons. The created race, named after their factory planet's designation, were the Cybertronian."

The silence is tense, and not even the wind previously rushing through the empty dusty lands surrounding the Protectodome seems to blow now.

"And that's important because…" Megatron not-asks, red optics dimmed to an almost black color, servos clenching and unclenching in a nervous reaction.

"Because the Quintessons never forgot about their lost slaves. So they came back for them, and decided to get their leaders first, and take the chance to drain yet another planet of their resources." It is only because Ironhide grabs him that he doesn't end on the ground.

On Earth's ground.

"They captured us, and reprogrammed us to let us think we were…"

"Humans defending yourselves. Yes." The Weapons Specialist answers that time, and they all turn to look at the ruins of the Protectodome.

He can see the 3D projection in the image in front of their optics, only, instead of the red areas marking where the outer shield has been damaged, they are now where both inner and outer shields have been obliterated, creating a wide entrance into the Protectodome.

He doesn't need to ask how it has happened. The Aerialbots are there with Ironhide's team, as battered and modified as the Combaticons, looking like a cross between Acid Storm and the matte black Seekers, though with bright silvery-white, cherry red and dark gray color schemes.

"You were the Black Beasts all along, weren't you." Once more, Megatron's words aren't a question.

The former civilians and members of the fake Civilian Government startle at that, before they, too, make the connection.

"We were." Sunstreaker answers with a scowl, his form also modified, with bigger shoulder plates, overlapping chest plates, smaller curled back helm fins and black accented tarnished gold coloring. "Since they caught us, and until we were freed."

"Sam Twain." He doesn't know the name, but the golden frontliner obviously does, because his expression darkens even more as he looks at the Decepticon leader.

"That's what they programmed as my designation, yes." He spits venomously, and Sideswipe, as equally changed with silver marked dark red color scheme, rests a servo calmly on his shoulder plate. "Sam and Dean Twain. Glad you got rid of us?"

"Never." And Megatron's voice is fierce and sincere, and the golden Autobot finally relaxes. "I was never glad to lose any of my men." He adds, more subdued, looking back at the Protectodome. "So you were trying to 'rescue' us and get rid of these Quintessons." Acid Storm and the three Constructions answer with soft 'yessir'. "Congratulations. You finally did it."

"It wasn't us." All optics turn to Shockwave, who, despite the absence of a faceplate, conveys his annoyance and curiosity as clearly as any other mech. "Whatever happened to free you, it wasn't of our doing."

"But then, how—"

"—agging _perfect_! Just when I manage to get the docks ready, they're not needed anymore!" All thoughts are forgotten as they try to locate the origin of the irate voice.

A couple of nanokliks later, a completely matte black Astrotrain with his chest plates showing various sensor spheres and big and thick plates covering his back and shoulders to the point he almost looks twice his size, walks out of the dust, with a green streaked matte black Mixmaster with thick arms and what looks like a tank on his back leaning on the Triple Changer due to a broken lower leg strut.

A bewildered dark yellow marked matte black Bonecrusher walks in front of them, long arms up as if to protect himself from the ranting lime green accented matte black Hook by his side, waving also long arms ended in a great number of varied dactyls, his legs as sharp-angled as Scavenger's.

Even before they actually see them, the other three Constructicons shot toward the voices with squeals of joy befitting newsparks instead of cruel and deadly members of the Decepticon Elite.

Well, it isn't as if any of them can blame them, least of all because their gestalt-mates quickly adopt the same attitude when they see them, the six of them joining in a tight hug—

And losing their balance and ending on a pile on the ground.

The observers' smiles just widen at the Combiner members' laughter, not even Hook protesting.

An amused but confused Astrotrain approaches them in the interim, deciding to leave the reuniting gestalt to their own things as he finds out what's going on.

"So, if that wasn't you, who was it?" The Triple Changer asks a klik later, after being given a summary of their lost origins and their creator race's revenge.

The Constructicons, who have also joined them by then, exchange confused looks, as Hook, Bonecrusher and Mixmaster's optics flash bright with surprise.

"You mean, you weren't the ones that broke through the Protectodome? But—We saw that weird Tetrajet fly through the crumbling shields!" Hook stutters, gesturing a bit.

Onslaught's grunt of realization earns him all but his gestalt-mates' expectant optics.

"So _that_ is what he did? But, what for?"

"Who is he?" Megatron growls, and all the former Military, including Ironhide himself and others of his team, straighten at attention.

"Command—I mean, Starscream. He turned around in the middle of the battle, after all that crazy talk with—"

"Soundwave." Blaster cuts him off, looking around frantically, and is only then that Optimus realizes the Third in Command wasn't with them when they rebooted in the _Nemesis_' bridge.

And neither is Starscream around, like he was supposed to.

And—

"Prowl." The Prime whispers, optics paling as he recalls yet another missing one. "Jazz."

"They got away." Everybody turns to Red Alert, who looks slightly sheepish. "I saw them get out of the Med Bay, with Jazz awake and dressed, but then there was the alarm, and only Soundwave came to the bridge, remember? I was about to ask him for the other two, but…" He grimaces, and the gesture is quickly mirrored by those who were present.

The rest exchange confused looks, but Shockwave taking a step closer to them is enough to clear everyone's processor.

"If they deviated from their usual acting, which appears to be implied by your words, and weren't with you upon reboot, their location and retrieval must be prioritized before any other actions." A confused look from the two leaders is all it takes for the purple mech to look at the Protectodome, a strange tension taking hold of his frame. "It is possible that they are still under Quintesson control, in a last effort for them to keep hold of some of us. And they have a portable Space Bridge."

For the umpteenth time since his rebooting in the _Nemesis_' bridge, Optimus' spark stops pulsing.

They are still free, but Jazz and Prowl, along Soundwave and Starscream, aren't yet.

And if the Quintessons manage to take them when they use the Space Bridge to escape, they will never get them back.

A look to meet Megatron's optics is all it takes for them to renew the truce between Autobots and Decepticons.

Despite their factions, they will be, forever and always, Cybertronian.

* * *

It's the touch that makes him realize there's someone with him in the room.

He braces himself and wills himself to retreat deeper in—

The touch comes from servos.

He can clearly feel the dactyls scratching him from time to time as they get rid of the restraints on his legs.

More curious than weary, Motormaster brings his audials and optics online.

Dead End gives him a fleeting look and a relieved smile before turning his attention to the cuff on his left wrist binding his gestalt leader to the wall.

"Wha—re you—d'ing?" He manages to say through glitching clicks, and he has to reboot his voice box twice to fix the damage caused from disuse.

Dead End finally rips away the cuff and turns to the other wrist as Motormaster reacquaints himself with the gears and joints in his freed arm and servo.

"I'm getting you out of here." The smaller mech revs his engine with a hint of humor at the disbelieving look bestowed upon him. "Yes, I still think we're all going to be deactivated, but there are less painful ways."

The other cuff falls to the floor, and if it wasn't because of Dead End helping him keep standing, Motormaster would have followed.

His gyros are so out of alignment that he has to lean on his gestalt-mate all the way out of the room before they finally calibrate.

And then, when he finds the dead-gray corridor covered by planks and tubing and cabling from the highly damaged ceiling, but devoid of more life than the two of them, he opens the gestalt bond.

Dead End has to stabilize him as Wildrider's effusive greeting, Drag Strip's happiness and Breakdown's relief almost overwhelm him.

To his utter surprise, he feels himself sending questioning pulses along small bits of worry back at them.

He has missed them.

Badly.

After all the pain, the reprogramming attempts, the reconfiguring… being able to feel those he once upon a time considered failures is the best he has ever experienced.

Dead End's calm but also questioning pulse and the look he gives his leader are enough to let him know they all feel the same, but that this is neither the time nor the place.

Wildrider sends excitement and dismissal in answer to his asking pulse about their well-being, but both Breakdown and Drag Strip send back feelings of annoyance, meaning they're hurt, but not seriously enough for Motormaster to worry.

He does, nevertheless, but keeps his feelings from the bond.

He was merciless, even to his own gestalt-mates. What has happened to him?

He doesn't need anyone to answer for him to know. They're all in danger, and they will need each other to get out of this.

Plus, they managed to free themselves when _he_ couldn't, so they aren't as useless as he once first thought.

"How did you get out?" He asks Dead End after he manages to lift his weight from his smaller gestalt-mate, who starts to walk down the corridor.

"Drag Strip freed me. He was forced to online and found himself on a repair table, with one arm completely detached but only the legs cuffed down. He ripped the restraints off, found and freed Wildrider, and then they got me." He explains after making sure his leader is following, peaking around the corner before resuming their walk. "Since it looks like the complex is empty, Wildrider is looking for an exit. Drag Strip went to get Breakdown and I came to find you."

Motormaster is the one to look around at the next bifurcation, keeping the smaller mech behind him, before following the feeling through the gestalt bond to where Breakdown and Drag Strip are.

"I see they reconfigured you too." He comments simply, giving the pessimist mech a thorough look at his new appearance.

Big forelegs and pedes, thick chest plates arranged in two rows, rounded forearm plates, strong-looking thick back-struts and shoulder plates arcing back and upwards in small resemblance to doorwings, where Motormaster has thick pedes, squared chest plates, elongated forearm plates ended in big servos and sharp clawed dactyls, reinforced pelvic plating protecting the joints and big shoulder plates pointing upwards.

At least they are both the same matte black.

Dead End scowls, but they way he hunches into himself is telling.

If it wasn't for the smaller's presence, Motormaster would have tried to hide too.

Reconfiguring was an extremely painful and unpleasant process, more so because those five creatures didn't give him the mercy of putting him into stasis.

His memories of the event are jumbled and mostly corrupted, and he can't help but be glad.

The next corner they round opens into a bigger and wider corridor, as damaged as the rest, and they find themselves almost face to face with the two mechs they wanted to find.

Breakdown and Drag Strip are leaning awkwardly against each other, the first carrying his own detached leg and the second's arm.

Nevertheless, none of them look to be in pain, smiling brightly when their optics meet.

Motormaster rushes to help Breakdown, now with thicker chest plating, incredibly big shoulder plates and big forearm plating with a long spine covering the elbow joint as the one growing out of the attached leg's big foreleg does the knee joint, allowing Drag Strip the use of his arm as Dead End takes the severed limbs.

"Alright. So the only thing we need now is to find the exit." The former F1 car chirps with a big smile, though his voice is low as he cradles the socket where his right arm should be with his reconfigured left, big shoulder plates, pedes and forelegs and similarly reinforced pelvic armor as that of his leader, with the only part of him that isn't matte black being the armor-less and gray arm the pessimistic mech now carries, the struts visible under parts of missing protoform.

It will be some time after he has it reattached, and Breakdown his leg, before he can regain full use of it, but they all feel lucky enough to have the severed limbs in their possession to allow for the reconnection.

Wildrider's sudden pulse of fear has Motormaster pulling Breakdown into his arms and running to where they feel their missing gestalt-mate before he can even think about it, two other sets of pede-steps at his back reassuring him about the rest of his teammates position.

When they reach the end of the corridor, where a door-less chamber full of blown machinery opens, they find the now calmer, also matte black, all sharp angles and the same doorwing-like shoulder plating as Dead End, crazy mech of their Combiner team just inside.

After a quick look back and a beaming smile, their wayward gestalt-mate points at a mass of half melted and charred white metal.

The overall shape is that of a semi cylinder and an oval cross, with four long things that look like tentacles growing out of it, and five lumps in a ring that barely resemble—

Faces.

The five faces he distantly recalls from his reconfiguring, and from the reprogramming attempts.

The five-faced monster that has turned him into a matte black shadow of himself, tried to pry open his gestalt bond, and left him strapped to a wall to rust while it turned to his teammates.

If it wasn't already deactivated, Motormaster would have shredded it and enjoyed its screams.

As it is, though, the big hole through the Death-like white and green face is enough of a confirmation that it is forever gone.

Nevertheless, the gestalt leader lets out a threatening growl of his engine before turning around and walking away from the room, the other three following him while Breakdown slowly, almost fearfully, taps one of his shoulder plates in an effort to comfort him.

He pulls his teammate, his brother, closer to his chest plates, adjusting the grip on him so that the smaller mech is more comfortable, and mutes his engine.

"What do you think happened to it?" Wildrider asks quietly, too quietly for who he is.

"Duh, it's obvious. Someone got tired of it, and got rid of it. And then tried to blow the whole place without bothering to see if there was some-bot else in here." Drag Strip answers easily, though his voice is equally subdued.

"Do you think it was the Decepticons?" They all look back at their madmech of a brother, who shrinks a bit at the attention. "I mean, if they messed with us, they must have messed with Megatron too, right? And he isn't a mech to just let these things go unpunished."

"But wouldn't they have at least looked?" The one armed Stunticon questions back, puzzled, before looking up at Motormaster.

"Perhaps they didn't have time." Dead End answers instead, glaring at the debris covered ground.

The exit becomes clear when they get to it, following the main corridor, as they find themselves in front of a pile of rubble coming from a hole in the ceiling, along some stray rays of sunlight filled with flecks of dust and rust.

Breakdown and Drag Strip stay back, throwing away the hunks of metal and concrete as their three fully mobile brothers widen one of the biggest spaces to the outside.

When they finally manage to enlarge it enough for Motormaster, who is the bulkiest of them, the leader carefully hoists himself through it.

It looks like a skyscraper has collapsed on top of the underground base's entrance.

Stunned at the level of destruction all around him, the damaged buildings further away and, most importantly, the gargantuan dome-like structure covering the entire _Cybertronian-sized_ city with the exception of almost a third of it having been seemingly ripped away on the furthest side of it from his position, Motormaster suffers an instant of weakness, of feeling _tiny_ and _alone_.

His brothers, through their bond and physically calling for him to help them get out, snap him out of it, but he's still eerily calm as he reaches down to help Breakdown out of the destroyed corridors.

All of them suffer through the same momentary weakness as they finally get to look around.

"Are those drones?" Wildrider whispers, pointing at a street, where dirty black shapes are lying immobile on the ground, vaguely human-shaped but middle-sized for a ground-bound Cybertronian.

"They do look like that." Drag Strip muses out loud, tilting his head to the side in confusion at their, apparently, sudden deactivation.

There aren't dents or rips on their bodies, no kind of fuel source pooling around them, not even residual electricity, to point at what happened.

To all accounts, it's as if they just deactivated on the spot.

"Is that _Energon_?" They don't need more than to look vaguely in the direction Dead End is staring so intensely at for the glittering pink liquid seeping through cracks on one of the many piles of debris to catch their attention.

With the sun reflecting on it, it's a wonder they haven't noticed it sooner.

Carefully, and leaving Breakdown sitting on a crossbeam, Motormaster approaches the mount of junk.

The Energon is still trickling. Whatever is under it is still active, or has deactivated not too long ago.

Feeling the tension and expectation of his brothers, the leader slowly starts to remove hunks of metal.

Wildrider approaches soon after and quickly begins to help, so it takes less than a klik for them to uncover the strange yet familiar curled frames that were buried when the building collapsed.

Strange, because they have also been reconfigured.

Familiar, because two of them look awfully like they do, and the other two are daily sights in the _Nemesis_.

Three are colored, one a solid silvery-white, another the same matte black as the Stunticons but with white on its chest plates, and the third, the most familiar, a blue so dark that it looks almost black on some spots.

The fourth is matte black, with the only coloring being the pink of the Energon oozing out of cracks and some joints.

That one is a Flier.

The other known one looks so much like a certain mech, despite the reconfiguring and lack of facemask, that only one name comes to the front of his processor when he sees it.

"Soundwave." Motormaster whispers and, before he knows it, their other three brothers have joined them around the Cybertronian deep in stasis.

"That's a Seeker. Or should be." Drag Strip adds, stunned, as his red visor looks over the scratched and slightly bent strange wings covering the other three, as if he had tried to protect them from the falling debris.

"And that one's a Praxian." Breakdown whimpers, pointing at another set of shorter wing-like appendages on the silvery-white Grounder's back.

All remaining Praxian are Autobots.

All remaining Seekers are Decepticons.

And yet, the Doorwinger is curled protectively around the Soundwave-like one and the other ground-bound Cybertronian, and the Flier is covering them all.

The sound of turbines breaking the almost complete silence startles them, their optics quickly turning to the broken part of the dome, where three shapes are flying slowly inside.

Two of them are strange, unrecognizable, and yet, Motormaster can see the similarities with the Seeker they've found, with the longer but thinner wings, and the smooth body.

The third is not only really familiar, but also one they have a designation for.

So, when Wildrider jumps onto a mount of debris and starts to wave his arms while shouting for Acid Storm, the leader orders the rest of his gestalt to help him free the injured Cybertronian.

They are together, free and, as he watches the two matte black Seekers and the well known green one rush to them, they are going back to the Decepticons.

Perhaps then, after his team-mates are repaired and they've all refueled, some-bot will explain them what is going on.

* * *

**AN:** From now on, it's back to schedule. So, next update will be on Saturday (not tomorrow, the next one).

To clarify, 'cause I know that mess of descriptions is a mess, the upgraded characters are based on:

Optimus Prime: Mix of G1 and Bay-Verse. G1's body, though less boxy and more streamed, looking a bit more like Bay-Verse's; retractable face mask (Bay-Verse) and Bay-Verse's color scheme, though the flames are not as marked/detailed. Also, no windshields.

Megatron: IDW (th05 . deviantart (.net) / fs71 / PRE / f / 2011 / 239 / 2 / 5 / megatron_by_mom355-d47z9e9 . png - I know he's anything but 'small', but try to find a picture with the fusion cannon and you'll understand what I mean [look for IDW Megatron])

Skyfire: Mix of G1 and Bay-Verse. Here's my drawing, bad as it is, in hopes you get an idea (ezimba (.com) / work / 140518C / ezimba15531458046801 . jpg)

Wheeljack: tfw2005 (.com) / boards / attachments / transformers-fan-art / 27413914d1390123895-reimagined-movie-wheeljack-7777 . jpg - More or less, take off the mask, put optics instead of visor, and the head fins should be more like Prime-verse's, but angled backwards.

Perceptor: Like G1, minus shoulder-cannon

Blaster and Soundwave: Modified _War for Cybertron_ Soundwave, with Blaster being the more different from the 'original' of the two (tfwiki (.net) / mediawiki / images2 / thumb / 4 / 44 / Soundwave_WfC_GameInformer_Concept_Art . jpg / 300px-Soundwave_WfC_GameInformer_Concept_Art . jpg)

Eject and Rewind/Frenzy and Rumble: _War for Cybertron_ Frenzy and Rumble (i826 . photobucket (.com) / albums / zz189 / razzitron / war_for_cybertron_013_1272873128-1 . jpg), minus the weapons (Frenzy and Rumble have them, Eject and Rewind don't).

Ravage: Seen _Beast Wars_? Then forget about _that_ Ravage, please. _This_ Ravage has Bay-Verse's body (splendidwallpaper (.com) / wp-content / uploads / 2009 / 08 / transformers_2_ravage_1280x800 . jpg) and _War for Cybertron_'s head, tail and hands, though with five more human-like fingers (tfwiki (.net) / mediawiki / images2 / thumb / 3 / 3c / RavageFOC . jpg / 400px-RavageFOC . jpg). Also, he can walk on two legs with absolutely no problem, doesn't have the spines on the back of the neck and _no hip cannons_.

Ramhorn and Steeljaw: Steeljaw (transformerslegends (.org) / wp-content / uploads / 2013 / 06 / Steeljaw-Card . png) with smaller mane and Ramhorn (transformerslegends (.org) / wp-content / uploads / 2013 / 06 / Ramhorn-Card . png) with smaller horns, and neither with their weapons.

Laserbeak, Buzzsaw and Ratbat: Their 'new' alt modes and their transformation are taken from Bay-Verse's Laserbeak. Seeing that vulture-like Con transform into a mini-Bumblebee-like thing was one of the awesomest things I've ever seen. So, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw are Bay-Verse-like, with Buzzsaw being bulkier and both with shorter necks, while Ratbat is more like this one (fc05 . deviantart (.net) / fs71 / f / 2010 / 146 / c / 2 / Ratbat_profile_by_Tf_SeedsOfDeception . jpg).

Red Alert: transformerslegends (.org) / wp-content / uploads / 2013 / 06 / Red-Alert-Card . png

Bluestreak: _War for Cybertron_, minus the cannons, and with the chevron more like Prime-Verse's Smokescreen, though wider (1800pocketpc (.com) / blog / wp-content / uploads / 2011 / 07 / Bluestreak-1 . png).

Seekers: Remember the Tetrajet crafts (Cover Picture)? Well this is what they look like in root mode (ezimba (.com) / work / 140518C / ezimba15531447267001 . jpg). Take into account wings are mobile. Their normal position would be folded, like the right one is, while the Seeker-y position would be extended, though in a relaxed way, which the left shows. The tail 'unfolds' to form the legs, which is why they are so spidery. Original Lineart belongs to GuidoGuidi (guidoguidi . deviantart (.com) / art / Neo-Seeker-279997598)

Acid Storm: IDW _Megatron: Origin_ (transformers-universe (.com) / content / images / galerie / pics / 323 / 32302_Origin3_Seekers . jpg)

Bumblebee: _War for Cybertron_, but with smaller and flatter chest (images . wikia (.com) / transformers / images / archive / b / bf / 20111031135557 ! Wfc-bumblebee-1 . jpg)

Ratchet: A mix of Bay-Verse (sensor spheres: hdwallpappers (.com) / images / wallpapers / Transformers-Ratchet-Wallpaper . jpg) and the original G1. Same chevron as Bluestreak, only black.

Bruticus: Badly drawn, but I hope it serves (ezimba (.com) / work / 140621C / ezimba15531462849101 . jpg)

Onslaught: _Fall of Cybertron_ (media1 . gameinformer (.com) / imagefeed / screenshots / TransformersFallofCybertron / transformers_fall_of_cybertron_concept_art_onslaught_robot . jpg)

Ironhide: Mix of original and Bay-Verse (tfw2005 (.com) / boards / attachments / transformers-feedback / 27223238d1303269994-leader-class-ironhide-ironhide2 . jpg)

Shockwave: mmotoys (.com) / wp-content / uploads / the-first-step-to-fixing-a-mistake-is-admitting-a-wrong-for-his-part-20140509074413-536ce9bdab188 . jpg

Scrapper: upload . wikimedia (.org) / wikipedia / en / 5 / 5a / Scrapper_ROTF . jpg

Long Haul: tfw2005 (.com) / resources / attach / 4 / 0 / 5 / 9 / 7 / transformers-rotf-longhaul-cha_1245997208 . jpg

Scavenger: Work In Progress, sorry.

First Aid: _War for Cybertron_ (fc08 . deviantart (.net) / fs71 / f / 2012 / 050 / b / 9 / wfc_first_aid_ca_by_bokuman-d4qahdc . jpg)

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe: tfw2005 (.com) / boards / attachments / transformers-fan-art / 27097758d1246832159-sunstreaker-movie-concept-sunnyconcept_final . jpg

Astrotrain: Minus the second pair of arms (fc08 . deviantart (.net) / fs70 / f / 2010 / 291 / b / 3 / transformers_movie_astrotrain_by_agentdc7-d25p0ew . jpg)

Hook: Kind of like Scavenger

Mixmaster: angelfire (.com) / mech / jinsaotome / JinsDangerousToys / Mixmaster_001 . JPG

Bonecrusher: tfw2005 (.com) / boards / attachments / transformers-movie-discussion / 27405679d1385559930-cgi-renderings-2-201 . jpg

Dead End: features . cgsociety (.org) / newgallerycrits / g56 / 373456 / 373456_1251162851_large . jpg

Motormaster: fc02 . deviantart (.net) / fs40 / f / 2009 / 052 / c / 7 / MotorMaster_2_by_Elder_Of_The_Earth . jpg

Breakdown: tfw2005 (.com) / transformers-images / wallpapers / images / 7204-1 / WFC+Breakdown+SD . jpg

Drag Strip: tfwiki (.net) / mediawiki / images2 / thumb / c / c5 / / 300px-Wfc-dragstrip-1 . jpg

Wildrider: _War for Cybertron_'s Barricade (I think) (1 . bp . blogspot (.com) / _W2kDUOORbWY / TDMjpxswqlI / AAAAAAAAFmc / 8gDwtDRz76o / s1600 / barricade+war+for+cybertron . jpg)

And on to other things: **U****nits of length****  
**

Micron: Twenty centimeters

Kil: Ten kilometers


	20. Drabble: Missing Fragments

**AN:** This is not an actual chapter, it's a series of missing scenes that grew too long to be posted after actual chapters. There's going to be the usual post, nevertheless, so expect Chapter 20 on Friday, most likely.

* * *

It's too much.

He's just gotten rid of the Aerial tailing both him and Grant by means of a feint that left the Black Beasts to collide with each other, but he's miscalculated, and now he's trapped between two Point Heavy.

He can hear himself call for help as he tries to get away from them, but their shots are effectively keeping him trapped, and he's too high for a sonic boom to be effective.

And there's no way he can get closer to the ground without being shot down.

"_To space!_"

Before Ted can think, he finds himself turning on his place and flying upwards, further from the ground with each nanosecond.

The shooting stops, and he takes a deep breath to calm down.

His Tetrajet is slightly bigger, and obviously heavier and slower than his wingmates', but he's not Superion.

He's not big nor heavy nor slow enough to be the primary target of all on-site Black Beasts.

He couldn't help Superion, none of them could.

But they didn't have Steve Reeds back then.

"_Now_ that_ is flying and not what those two—_" He smiles at Grant's voice as he angles back to the ground, ready to rejoin the fight—

"_Fall back!_"

Sanders, and he's not sounding his controlled self, either.

Just on the edge of his scans, he sees it.

Reeds' signal colliding with an Aerial's.

The blue dot flickers, and his throat closes painfully, his cry of despair muted.

But the Air Commander stays airborne, even if his trajectory is a bit wobbly, and is getting away from—

The Black Beasts follow, as if waiting for him to drop, and Ted can almost _see_ their wide and too sharp and triumphant grins, even if no one knows if they even _have_ anything similar to a face.

Something inside him snaps.

"Get away from my Trine Leader!" He _roars_, quickly rushing through the three _monsters_ tailing his Commander while unleashing the strongest sonic boom he's capable of producing in such short time.

One blinks out immediately.

There's no red in his vision, not like those times he's felt murderous enough to almost lose all reason.

Instead, he feels overtly focused, practically able to see even the smallest twitches of the Aerial he's pursuing, easily predicting its moves and maneuvers and keeping after it, getting closer and closer and _closer—_

"_I've got him!_" Grant's voice doesn't snap him out of his rage or whatever this focused state is, but it soothes the tiny hint of desperation almost drowned by his eagerness to _make them pay, rip their wings slowly and piece by piece, starting with peeling the paint and then strip the outer plating and soak the sensor nodes with _acid— "_He's flying slower but better, but I can't hail him. Comm must be down._"

And those have to be the sweetest words, the best news, he's ever heard.

"Just get him out, I have this fuckers." He doesn't mean it, but he can't say anything else, because he can't bring himself to think about anything worse to call those thrice accursed Black Beasts, so he just shoots his prey and lets the blood-lust filling his chest fester as its signal vanishes from his screens, immediately turning to its companion.

He can almost feel its fear, see its wings quiver in horror, taste its death—

And he'll enjoy every second of it.

His engines roar again as he approaches it, bringing his cannons online and trying to lock onto it—

"One more to go and—"

Pain and numbness—_are those _null-rays_?_—and the rush of air as he falls and nothing.

* * *

It can't be possible.

Point Heavy have the strength to seriously damage, even deactivate, a Cybertronian with a close proximity shot, but Runners don't.

And yet, something has gotten young Freddy, and the only thing close enough was the Runner that rushed past him.

It _can't be possible_.

He gets rid of the Black Beast as his weapons lock onto it, almost on automatic, as he hears Allan call his brother—

"_Since when can Black Beasts do—?!_"

He doesn't see it, for his scans can't reach the area he's in, but the way the Sanders ground-bound kid's transmission has been cut can only mean one thing.

Loss of comm lines.

Whether it is because of damage to the systems or loss of the Cybertronian…

"_Dad—hurts, it—please I—need help—sorry—Creator I'm scared—_"

And it stops.

Only this time, Grant knows he won't hear the kid again.

Numbness fills him, and it's only because of the years of training that he avoids the shots from the ground-based Black Beasts and strikes back.

Something blue flickers on the edge of his scans, turning so that it gets closer, and another pursues it.

A red dot.

The ID bubble of his fellow Tetrajet isn't usually needed to get him to help, but this time it spurns him to act faster and hit _stronger_.

Ralph Sanders.

"This is the last time you mess with the kids, you monsters! As long as I'm here no one's—"

The Aerial approaches so fast and determinedly that it's almost on top of him when he notices it.

Still burning with rage, he twists and turns and looks for that instant when the Black Beast will fall for a feint or turn a second too slow, to use it to turn around and shoot it out of the sky.

But that instant doesn't come.

The signal on his tail mirrors his every move, sees every feint before it can even happen, modules its speed so as to not fall behind nor end up in range of his cannons—

It's as if it can read his mind.

"_Grant, get back to half distance!_" Nodding in a gesture no one can see, the deputy Air Commander twists once more, though this time angling to be able to rush to the Ground Cybertronian he knows are waiting to blast the Beast away—

The collision rattles him so much that his shout isn't more than a gasp, all sensors going crazy with red and red and _red—_

He lets out an agonizing wail as he feels _something_ ripped out, waves after waves of burning pain rushing through his body as systems try to redirect the energy that should be going through his speed-boost drive—

He slams painfully against the controls as the Tetrajet _lurches_, as if thrown by some unknown force—and he realizes the force isn't unknown, that it's the Black—

The crash leaves him numb and hurting and without breath, sprawled halfway on the controls and the floor instead of the seat—

There's something cool caressing his sticky and sweat-covered skin.

He can't stop panting, despite the wracking pain each breath brings, watching but not seeing the static-covered and flickering screens he's almost lying on.

There's… orange light filling the cockpit?

Impossible, all displays use red and blue and green and white, there's shouldn't be orange—

The light vanishes, leaving the usual coloration, before everything turns red.

He can almost feel a hand stroking his awkwardly bent back, mindful of the spots where the crash has dented the plating and scratched deeply, and oh, so _familiar_…

"_Warp, it's alright, I'm here. Tell Starscream to watch after himself, I'll take care of you._"

He chuckles silently, closing his eyes to better feel the cool breeze carrying the smell of dirt and water vapor and metal and a voice he thought he'd never hear again.

"Screamer… TC says… take care…" He manages to get out between gasping breaths, and the hand caressing his fuselage is more solid now as another carefully bends a wing to fold it against the body.

He lets stasis claim him, lulled by the smell of earthen air and the feeling of Thundercracker's arms lifting him.

Everything will be alright.

* * *

The words on the datapad don't make sense.

It takes Lester Storm about ten minutes to realize that.

And then, when he notices he's too tired, too lost in his thoughts to know what he's been reading, he has enough sense to power down the pad and lean back in his seat.

The _Nemesis_ is quiet, silent, or, at least, it seems so from within his office.

As it always does.

And yet, it's too much.

The datapads on his desk are a quarter of the usual numbers, and there's no annoying yet efficient Second in Command sitting in the chair in front of his, going over something or other for the umpteenth time in that ever since the 'flu incident' higher pitched voice.

Neither is there a quiet yet comforting blond on the other chair, even if the first is empty, calmly looking over whatever the Supreme Commander needs reviewed, or checking something else before pointing out each and every flaw and providing an alternative.

And, since none of his Commanders is there, there's no chance of both of them being in his office at the same time, going over a new strategy or the monthly reports or a maintenance or blueprint set, bickering among themselves as they try to agree on _something_.

He used to be annoyed and satisfied at the same time.

He never realized how _mundane_ all of it had become.

Or how much he would miss his TIC, hidden in the shadows and unobtrusive to the point one sometimes forgot he was there, and his SIC, always antagonizing and protesting almost childishly, if they were gone.

_When_ they were gone.

It was always a reoccurring fear with Reeds, with him being Field and Air Commander and, as thus, going out to fight against the Black Beasts in as many attacks as possible, but Lester never thought there would come a day when Sanders would be gone, too.

Both at the same time, yet both still alive.

Just, no longer in the _Nemesis_, in the Military.

And the reason is because he, Supreme Commander Lester Storm of the _Ark_ Protectodome, discharged them.

Sure, he's just given them leave—medical leave—but unless Spec Ops manages to get those behind the attacks—and he's _sure_ there's someone responsible for his officers' health problems—they're as good as gone.

No, not unless.

Until.

… He hopes.

And yet, despite resenting the results of his decision, he can't bring himself to resent it.

The 'flu incident' was the beginning, even if Lester—nor anyone else—didn't realize it.

But after this, after the loss of Sanders' twins and both of Reeds' wingmates, there's no way it can be misinterpreted.

The brain hemorrhaging was the first clue.

Everything was alright, all checks came clear after that, even if the medical explanation for both incidents was believable and logical yet strangely unfitting. After all, _both_ happening at the same time, and with Reeds somehow knowing about Sanders—what other reason would he have to rush to the TIC's side?—_couldn't_ be normal.

And then, the bridge, the losses… and the hallucinations.

And the fact neither of them realized they suffered them.

Lester was wearing his headphones, and busier organizing the Cybertronian than paying attention to his grieving officers, but he was still aware of what was going on with them.

Frenzy. Rumble. Skywarp.

Those are not, nor ever were, real names.

But they still called for them.

He's sure Sanders didn't see anything after Sanders-R—Ralph—entered the Protectodome, too busy rushing to the docks, but _he_ did.

And the way Reeds almost convulsed as he curled into himself where an instant before the Communications Officer had been was _not_ reassuring.

And neither was the soulless gaze that met Lester's as the tanned man stopped shaking and straightened.

The Supreme Commander was busy with his post, but he wouldn't have followed the Air Commander when he exited the bridge, anyway.

Instead, he called Shepherd and told him to keep an eye on his officers, having a hunch that Reeds' would follow Sanders to the docks, but to stay out of the way unless they needed urgent medical attention.

When the Chief Medical Officer reported back an hour later, it wasn't exactly with good news.

Apparently, they had been standing at the bottom of Sanders-R's docking spot's ramp, the Communications Officer leaning against the Air Commander almost to the point of the tanned man being the only thing keeping him upright, until the Tetrajet came inside and the youth ran out.

Father and son had embraced then, but what Shepherd had focused on in that moment was Reeds.

In the way he'd been sizing all the others in the docks, medics, pilots and mechanics alike, as if they were about to pull a gun on him. Or as if _he_ was about to shoot them all and get rid of the perceived threat.

People had quickly given him and the Sanders a really wide berth, so they had gone away, the Air Commander guiding the Communications Officer and his son, without trouble nor anyone even looking at them.

They left them alone that night, so that they could cool off and put themselves together… And they were sent to Shepherd to be given a psych evaluation first thing in the morning.

The medic was even more worried after that.

The normality of the situation—with the exception of Reeds appearing without bandages on his face and refusing treatment to get rid of his scars—was the most unsettling point.

Sure, their losses hurt them, and it showed, but everything else—and their answer to their family and wingmate's deaths—was _too_ normal.

Shepherd immediately recommended, almost to the point of demanding, putting them on medical leave.

_"They're in shock."_

_"Didn't you say they're acting normal?"_

_"Precisely. They _shouldn't_ be, their responses to their losses shouldn't be so… _expected_."_

_"Which makes you think they're in shock."_

_"Yes. What happened hasn't set in yet, and when it does… Nevertheless, you shouldn't keep them on duty, even if they can work."_

They argued after that, but when the doctor started listing all things that could happen around his unstable officers… Lester doesn't want anyone harmed, least of all by one of his own men.

So, he compiled the requests for replacements and went to the meeting as if nothing was wrong.

What he saw only supported his decision.

Sanders would have never protested as openly and violently as he did when he mentioned the Stealth Cybertronian, and while Reeds was far more vocal, the feeling that he was about to rip the Supreme Commander apart with his own hands was something completely new.

And not welcome.

And yet, he almost retracted his words when he saw his officers' reactions.

Having to explain himself, his _real_ reasons, surprisingly, left him feeling better, once the knot in his stomach at their lack of information, options, _anything_, lessened.

August had always helped him feel better, as well as tame his natural aggressiveness, but there were few times he'd appreciated his friend as much as after that Governance meeting.

He could do with the same doses of patience now, for while Raleigh Sanders is as efficient and trustworthy as the former Communications Officer despite his youth, Shawn Reeds is equally annoying and loud-mouthed as the previous Air Commander, though without his effectiveness on the field.

It's fortunate that his Tetrajet's radioactive nature makes up for his lack of leadership skills, as well as the poor control he exerts on the troops.

While Steve commands respect and lots of annoyance, his younger brother only has the annoyance in common.

He hopes his men, his officers, those he has been thinking of as friends despite never admitting it even to himself, recover quickly.

And that the _bastards_ that have been drugging his people are caught soon.

For all their sakes.

The beeping brings him out of his reverie and, sighing tiredly, he pulls out his phone.

August is on the other end of the line, talking almost hysterically, and Lester finds himself rushing through the corridors as his brain starts to piece together the Civilian Government Commander's words.

Civilian Government building. Communications Center. Steve Reeds, John Sanders, Ron Fowler. Brain hemorrhaging.

For the first time in what feels like years, Supreme Commander of the _Ark_ Protectodome Lester Storm steps out of the Military Base _Nemesis_, but the only thing in his mind isn't the cool and artificial breeze that runs through his short hair to balance the warm temperature, nor the surprised and startled looks on the people he leaves behind, nor how easy it is to steer the hover-car despite how little he uses one.

The only thing in his mind isn't even a scene, either remembered or current, but instead a pitch black darkness as chocking as the despair squeezing his heart.

Because it's been barely a week since his officers suffered brain hemorrhaging, and he sent them away to _avoid_ a repetition.

Instead, they're in medical care again, for the same reason, in barely no time, along one of the Civilian Government officers.

_It's all my fault._

* * *

**AN:** Alright, just in case: The first and second part are the last moments of 'Ted Carter' and 'Sky Grant', when they were lost outside the Protectodome. The second was a try at Lester Storm's reasons for putting Starscream and Soundwave on leave, though I'm not sure I got that right (opinions and criticism on these part will be specially appreciated).

**Angel Heart:** Yes, you got that about the Quintessons right. And you know, that thing about Starscream and Sunstorm sound nice, _really_ nice... I think I could work with it, in the future. Thanks for the idea.

Got Chapter 18 in one! You _have_ the ability to read minds, don't you?

I wasn't trying from creepy or anything like that, but I won't lie and say I'm horrified people got that impression. I _was_ aiming for on-the-edge-of-the-seat tense, so I'm satisfied both ways :D

There are so many opinions/ideas about bonding that I was a bit scared about writing it when I first began, but after my HC about this things took shape, I just let myself go. I'm really happy you liked it, and I would reference whoever wrote this things like this first, but I'm not sure I'll be able to nowadays...

Chapter 20 will have some answers 19 didn't have. I couldn't get them all in one chapter, and the Stunticons wanted some part in it... and I thought, 'let _them_ hand out some of the answers'. So, Motormaster took charge, to my astonishment.


	21. Drabble: The Way We Were

**AN:** This is not an actual chapter, it's a series of missing scenes that grew too long to be posted after actual chapters.

* * *

For as long as he can remember, Ron Fowler knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.

It was a common game among the children of the daycare he attended until he turned three, where the kids knew no more than what they were told.

It was still the choice of all those in the kindergarten, but, as he grew up, more and more changed their minds to other jobs.

He didn't.

Ron Fowler would be known generations after his time as the best Cybertronian pilot ever.

He was going to join the Military.

His always busy father supported him as much as a man whom he only saw for half an hour a day could, but young Ron didn't care whether he agreed with his son's choice or not.

Nothing would change his mind.

Three days before he turns sixteen, he has his recruitment form neatly filled and all files ready to drop at the _Nemesis_ first thing in the morning of the day he becomes of recruitment age.

He even has his father's signature, hard as it was to catch the man.

So, it is with an almost imperceptible skip in his step that the responsible and ice cool teenager exits his home to go get the groceries needed for dinner.

Half an hour later, his world turns upside down.

Literally.

The day has turned to night, the calm chatting has become panicked screaming, the roof of the small butchery is now pressing him against the cold tiled floor, and his pristine clothes are stained with dirt and blood.

Too much blood, and not all is his.

He tries to take a deep breath, tries to let out some kind of sound, but whatever is on his back doesn't let him do more than take in small gasps.

His head is fuzzy and his ears are ringing, but he can hear the crashing and cracking sounds, as loud and threatening as explosions.

… Perhaps they _are_ explosions.

There's no sense of time as Ron slowly puts things together, as he realizes the screams are pained and panicked, as more moaning starts to make it through the rubble of what once was a whole building, as he manages to move a leg only to wish he hadn't done so as his foot is now pressed against something fleshy.

He reminds himself, over and over and over, that he was in a butchery, that there ought to be pieces of meat strewn amidst the rubble, but he's always been too smart for his own good, for he knows _that_ meat doesn't have blood.

There's a gash on his thigh, bleeding sluggishly, and his right arm is broken so badly that it feels like the bone's been turned to dust, but he's alive.

Trapped, but alive.

There's a small explosion almost right over his head, and he winces soundlessly.

And then, the pressure on his back starts to lift.

Startled and confused, he can only blink when something fleshy and wet and framed by itchy strands rubs against his hair.

When he manages to look up, he finds himself face to face with a furry muzzle.

The dog pulls away, letting light inside as the rubble covering him slowly disappears.

And then, there are arms around him, cradling him close to a warm body, and his head lolls to rest on a shoulder.

With that new angle as hands maneuver him to a more comfortable position, his ribs screaming as he tries to take in deeper breaths, he sees a brand he's never paid much attention to before.

The Enforcers' insignia.

His mind drifts to that as he's carried out of the fallen building, going over the fact that Enforcers are everywhere in the Protectodome but he's never paid much attention to them, instead of trying to figure out why there are giant metallic slabs cutting through buildings or flattening whole blocks that he shouldn't be able to see if the area was undamaged.

The cries and shouts and wails and moans grow silent as he pushes the real world away, and, with it, the pain, concentrating instead on the soft jerks as the man carrying him makes his way through the streets and whatever may be in them.

From time to time, he feels a wet nose touch the toes of a foot he hasn't realized lost its shoe, and, despite how much he hates being tickled, the sensation is welcome.

Because that leg is the one injured, but if he can feel his toes he'll make a full recovery.

No matter what the medics tell him.

He's going to be recruitment age in three days, and he's going to apply for what will be his lifelong job next week, as soon as the medics release him.

… Wasn't that pile of rubble the hospital?

A twitch of toes as the dog licks them, a pang of pain up his thigh and back, and the tightening of his chest as his breath hitches so as to not laugh, and he looks away from the streets—

And back to the Enforcer insignia on the chest he's pressed against.

A quick look around, expertly avoiding looking at anything that's not wearing a uniform, confirms his suspicions.

Medics, nurses and Enforcers.

No Military.

After a second of doubt, he looks up, at the damaged yet standing Protectodome.

Of course there's no Military, they're all busy driving away the Black Beasts so they don't breach their shields.

But the people need help nevertheless, and they're not there to help.

No, they are, it's just that they are _outside_ instead of _inside_.

They protect the Protectodome to keep its population safe, but they're _not_ helping its inhabitants directly.

Ron wants to help, to guard, to protect.

That's why he wants to join the Military.

But he won't be able to fulfill his dream with them.

He will help, guard and protect people by taking care of the Protectodome.

But he won't be able to look through rubble for survivors, won't be able to guide confused and injured people to the field hospitals he's helped put up.

Nor will he be able to help a distressed and almost worried to death parent to their child.

He's one of the lucky ones to get a bed after he's out of surgery, arm in a cast and thigh and ribs so tightly bandaged that he can barely move, and his father takes him back to their thankfully unharmed apartment what feels like hours later, when he's guided to his son by an Enforcer.

Through the window of his room, while the smell of chicken soup starts to fill their home, Ron sees the aftermath what he now knows was the previous day's attack.

City blocks gone, buildings nothing more than rubble, people rushing around in panic, white tents signaling the field hospitals' locations.

And Enforcers patrolling the streets, some carrying dogs and tools to search through the destruction, others helping the citizens in the streets to the tents and to buildings yet more of their coworkers are adapting to be used as refuges.

There are even some Enforcer hover-cars and vans along the ambulances, used for the same purpose of taking care of those too injured to move. Or those that won't move ever again.

The recruitment form is still on his desk, with all the necessary files, when he looks away from the darkened city on the other side of his window, the environmental and lighting controls damaged or destroyed on some sections.

Moving slowly and carefully so as to not aggravate his injuries, Ron grabs the official datapad he requested in the _Nemesis_ and the one from the Hall of Records containing all his data, and stares.

For as long as he can remember, Ron Fowler knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.

But then the Black Day happened, and what had never changed did.

The Hall of Records was lost.

Almost seventy-five percent of the Military was lost.

About forty percent of the population of the Protectodome was lost.

A fifth of the inner shield was lost.

Two weeks later, the reconstruction efforts start on full.

Mass recruitment of the Military goes back to the slow trickle of peaceful times.

And Enforcer recruitment begins, since most of their members joined the Military, which cut the training time to only Cybertronian driving lessons.

One of those new recruits comes in with a cast on an arm and leaning on a crutch. And with a datapad from the now gone Hall of Records.

Years later, only the scar on his thigh and his position as Commander-in-Chief are left of the Black Day for that recruit.

But when that nightmarish situation seems to repeat itself, it isn't Ron Fowler, the boy who wished more than anything else to help his people, the one who looks through the window of a damaged office.

It's Prowl.

And while Fowler would have run outside and shouted at his Enforcers like Jazz does, Prowl can't find it in himself to worry about anyone but three very specific people.

Because the world he is in isn't real, only four in them are, so why should he worry?

The question gnaws at him all the way to the Civilian Government building.

When they arrive at the _Nemesis_ and other matters take priority, he hasn't yet found an answer.

* * *

The guy behind the desk is too cheerful despite his emotionless visage.

Oh, no one would exactly describe him as _that_, but Jazz knows nevertheless.

Auburn hair perfectly combed in a professional yet casual manner, uniform worn like one does their own skin, and green eyes looking over his datapad with an intensity that makes him wonder if the young man isn't trying to memorize everything instead of making sure all necessary data is present.

Which is how Jazz knows that the guy is _happy_ with what he does, unremarkable as checking in new recruits may be.

"Everything seems to be in order, Mister Smith—"

"Jazz."

"Excuse me?" Green eyes seem to sharpen, but that's the only appreciable change as the young man—Fowler, according to his tag—puts down the pad containing the recruit's personal files.

"My name. Jazz, not Smith. That's just the surname they gave me." He answers nonchalantly, shrugging with a lazy smirk, and the Enforcer's eye ticks softly in a hint of exasperation.

"Mister Smith—"

"Jazz."

"Mister _Smith—_"

"_Jazz_."

Snickers from the next desk fill the silence, but they don't break their stare, trying to will the other to yield.

It's been a really long time since the dark-skinned youth found someone as stubborn as himself.

Four years, actually, since the medic that tended to him after the Black Day, and who wouldn't let him sit up on his blanket nest slash bed.

Though he's enjoying himself immensely more now than he did then.

No surprises there.

"Sir, everything is in order. The only thing remaining will be a physical examination and test, which will be conducted—"

"Really?" He has to ask, dumbfounded as he's been left, because that's the first time anyone has circumvented the issue of his name like that.

And, to be sincere, it's kind of insulting.

He's _sixteen_, who in their right mind would call him _sir_?

The annoyed yet still looking calm and collected Enforcer, apparently.

"Is there a problem?"

Ah, there it is. Looking cool, but the iciness in his voice tells of his waning patience.

"I'll repeat myself. Really?" And, at last, there's some kind of reaction as the green-eyed man lets out an almost imperceptible sigh through his nose and straightens slightly.

"Propriety dictates to address you as 'Mister Smith', yet you insist on refusing that. Seeing as I can't call you by name, as such would be unfitting of the current situation, the only other available label would be 'Sir'. So, to answer your question, yes, _really_."

Silence.

Grinning widely, Jazz extends a hand towards the Enforcer, who jumps a bit in his seat with surprise clearly seen in his face and widened eyes.

"But if I was a friend, it'll be alright to be called by name, wouldn't it? Lets start again, 'kay? I'm Jazz, nice to meet you."

After a second of being scrutinized, sized and categorized by those piercing green eyes, a paler hand grasps his own.

"Ron Fowler. Pleasure's mine." Jazz's grin widens as he shakes the hand a bit before letting it go.

"Ron, huh? From Ronald?" He knows he's nailed it when the other straightens and becomes emotionless once more, though there's a hint of annoyance in his gaze.

"Agent Fowler to you, Mister Smith."

"That's not my name."

"That's not what your file says."

"Well, Ronald has a sense of humor!"

"That's not my name."

"That's not what your file says."

Silence.

Jazz's too wide and toothy grin—some would even say predatory—is met by Ron's unimpressed and condescending look.

"And how, pray tell, would you know what my file says?" The question is asked nonchalantly, but it's loaded.

After all, how could a would-be recruit know about personal data from the Enforcers?

Because Jazz is that good, that's how.

"I don't know. _You_ just told me what is in it."

The next instant, the man groans and buries his face in his hands as the dark-skinned youth snickers softly.

"Aw, don't be like that, Ronny. It's not your fault I'm _that_ good."

Jazz lets out a yelp as he suddenly finds a finger barely a hair widths away from the tip of his nose, jerking back to the point his chair stands on his back legs.

The Enforcer's green eyes are burning brightly, clearly _not amused_.

The dark-skinned man lets out a nervous chuckle.

"Don't call you that again, got it."

After a second, the hand is pulled back and the older man straightens in his seat, as if nothing happened.

Slower, Jazz mimics him.

"As I said before, these are the dates of both the physical examination and the test. Be there on time." The Enforcer adds nonchalantly, tending him the pad with the information, which he hurries to write down and set alarms for.

"Alright, I will. By the way, what do I have to do to enter Spec Ops?"

For the second time since he arrived here, Jazz sees surprise on the paler face.

"I'm afraid that's something that needs to be addressed once you are officially an Enforcer, and after you've served the basic quota of—"

"Aw, you're no fun." He cuts with a pout, resting his chin on his hand, and the other blinks in a mix of bewilderment and confusion.

"I wasn't trying to be." And Jazz finds himself smirking widely once more.

Oh, yes. It's been a _real_ long time since he's had such fun.

And let his name be Nancy if that glint in green eyes isn't amusement.

Since he's still called Jazz…

"So, what are you here for?" Fowler blinks in surprise yet again, and the dark-skinned youth's smirk softens to a lazy one. "You didn't join the Enforcers to babysit the rookies, did you?" Understanding flashes in the other's face before a strange reluctance takes hold of him.

"I joined to help."

Still called Jazz, which means…

"That's not everything."

Not a question, and the reluctance seems to take a firmer hold.

_Nailed it._

"I joined to help. But, to do that…" Unconsciously, the dark-skinned man leans forward, a gesture the other mirrors as he drops his voice to barely above a whisper. "I need to sanitize the higher institutions first."

"Which means—"

"—_striking from above._" They finish in unison, and there's a hint of understanding and awe as their gazes lock.

"Aiming for the top?"

"Not all the way. If I get too high up, I'll become too visible a target."

"Commander-in-Chief?"

"Precisely."

"Ever thought about Civilian Government?"

And the reluctance is back as they sit back properly in their seats.

"Maybe. But I'm not sure if that would be… feasible."

"Are you kidding?" The look Ron sends him tells him that no, he's not, but Jazz doesn't wipe the incredulous look from his face.

"… Perhaps Third in Command." The paler man finally relents, looking down at the table.

"Can't do, 'cause Third will be my post." The auburn head snaps up again, startled and with something that looks too much like betrayal in his gaze. "You can do a lot more as Second, and you're going to need the Head of Spec Ops close by to watch your back, won't you?" He finishes with a wink, and surprise wipes the precious emotions.

And then, to the surprise of the older man working on the next desk, the Enforcer laughs softly.

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Are we in a Protectodome?" Ron chuckles yet again, finally taking his datapads and putting them away.

"You're a weird one."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Ronald." The scowl is of annoyance, but the eye-roll is almost fond, so Jazz stands up. "But buying me a drink from a cafe that happens to be just across the street may do. Damn place is too expensive for my meager paycheck."

"Well, it'll do me good to be on good graces with the future Head of Special Operations. How does seven thirty sound?" He asks as the dark-skinned man slowly saunters away, readying himself to run—

"Sounds like a date, Commander!"

Already out of the room and halfway down the corridor, Jazz can't help but start to laugh as he runs away, Ron's voice following him.

"_Jazz_!"

* * *

**AN:** And some more short scenes. The first was supposed to be the Black Day as lived by those in the Protectodome, but somehow turned into some kind of Ron Fowler/Prowl study... And the second is Jazz and Fowler/Prowl's first meeting (and no, their meeting in the cafe wasn't a date, Jazz just wanted to go out with a bang).

Hope they are enough...

Title's from a song by Default, _The Way We Were_.

And yes, Chapter 20 will be posted now, after this one. I just wanted to get this out before 'officially' starting the new arc.

**Angel Heart:** I'll take up your offer, then ;)

I'm glad you liked Megatron's part (as said, I was really worried about it), and I enjoyed in a kind-of-evil way knowing I've managed to get you to be 'on-the-edge-of-your-seat' with Thundercracker and Skywarp. And I couldn't _not_ write Skywarp's ending as I did, both because the character wouldn't allow me to, nor did I want to, so I'm glad you found it relieving :)

Also, feel free to let me know if there's some missing scene/different point of view you'll like to read. I'm in a roll with these things!


	22. Broken Dreams

**AN:** Yes, this is Chapter 20. It picks up immediately after the end of Chapter 19 (Time of Awakening).

* * *

"Twice good news!" Ironhide calls sarcastically, snapping Skyfire out of his stunned and overly working processor.

"That would make them bad news." All the information they've landed on them vanishes suddenly as the shuttle whirls to stare at the answering mech, who, to his utter astonishment, is Shockwave.

_Two negatives make a positive, sure, but the opposite? Impossible!_

The Autobot Weapons Specialist turns to the mono-optic Decepticon with a blank faceplate and half lit optics.

"Shockwave, when I told you that 'yes, yes' said sarcastically meant 'no', I didn't mean that you could apply that philosophy to everything."

After a nanoklik of utter silence, the Constructicons and the three Autobot scientists break down laughing.

"You announced a duplication of an affirmative, in this case 'good', by saying it was twice its normal state, using a sarcastic tone. Why should the fact you've replicated the affirmative with a word implying duplicity instead of repeating said word twice change the situation?" The purple mech retorts calmly, and more laughter joins theirs at Ironhide's dismayed look.

"I didn't—I meant—You're doing it on purpose!" Shockwave doesn't react to the dactyl almost touching his optic, but the red Autobot seems to calm down after a loud rev of his engine. "I said it was twice good because Acid Storm just contacted me to tell me they've found our missing officers, and it was said with sarcasm because _the other_ good news is that they've found the Stunticons too."

"The Stunticons?" Optimus repeats with surprise, as Megatron frowns and turns to Sunstorm and Ravage.

"Wasn't Menasor in _Iacon_? And where is _Iacon_, anyway?" The Decepticon leader asks with a scowl, and the two mechs exchange a look before their optics dim in thought.

"Now that you ask, I have no idea." The matte black Seeker muses out loud, and the Cassette's tail twitches in annoyance. "I know what they wanted me to about the _Iacon_ Protectodome, but I don't really remember it."

"I remember docks similar to the _Nemesis_', and a slagged tiny apartment they would lend me when I was there, but it was so close to the docks that I never saw a lot of it." Astrotrain puts in, shrugging in a too human-like gesture.

Now that they finally realize what they are, it looks really strange to see any of them react like that.

The Triple Changer seems to figure it out himself barely a nanoklik later after the gesture's over, a low annoyed rumbling of his almost silent engines along a plating shiver demonstrating his uneasiness at his own action.

"_Iacon_ isn't really a Protectodome. It's a Quintesson spaceship that is accessed through the Space Bridge." Ironhide answers calmly, optics dimming after his words as he puts a servo against the side of his helm. "You sure you don't need First Aid there?" After a couple of nanokliks, the Autobot gestures to Shockwave, who gives a small nod and puts his free servo against his own helm, optic dimming. "Alright, we're sending Blitzwing over, so get in contact with him." He adds, as the Decepticon scientist talks softly to the missing Triple Changer, ordering him to get ready for pick up.

"I could go there to get them." Astrotrain cuts in, straightening to his now more impressive height. "I have more experience navigating the Protectodome, so if they give me the name of the place—"

"No, you are _not_ going. And neither are you." The Weapons Specialist cuts off, pointing a threatening dactyl at both the matte black Triple Changer and the Autobot Shuttle. "Why do you guys think they made you—Wait, wait! Repeat that, _slower_." He exclaims, turning away as he puts a servo once more against his helm.

"They made you think you were human so that you wouldn't transform. Transformation is a complex process, and the coding needed to keep the fake persona through the change is deep-rooted. None of you must transform before I can examine and get rid of all of the control coding." Shockwave finishes explaining, and Skyfire feels his plating tingle and cling in a shiver, his partitioned wings pressing against his back-struts.

They went as deeply as modifying the _transformation coding_? Even if it's just additions, such a process…

"The Military have it worse, don't they?" He asks as soon as the thought crosses his processor, and that unnerving single amber optic settles on him.

"We don't have enough data to answer. After all, this is the first time we've recovered 'civilians'."

"But we transformed to get down from the _Nemesis_…" Laserbeak whispers, and they all tense and look at the flying Cassettes. "Is this bad?"

"I shall examine you first as soon as we get back to—"

"_Say what_?!" Ironhide's bellow makes them all jump in surprise, Sunstorm's sensor spheres on his arms glowing brightly with a soundless hum, before he manages to calm down.

"Is something wrong?" Shockwave asks, not bothered by being interrupted, more like…

Worried?

Optics bright in disbelief and astonishment, the dark red mech turns around and presses something on a now uncovered panel on his forearm.

"Acid Storm, I'm putting you on speaker. Do me a favor and get Motormaster in the conversation."

"_You already have him. Say hello, Motormaster._" The Seeker's voice comes through, sounding loud and clear, and as worried and surprised as Ironhide's despite his attempt at humor.

"_'Hello'? Are you serious?_"

"_Just repeat what you've just told us._" Thundercracker's voice answers, the scowl clear in it.

"_I said, we found one of those five-faced Quinta-things._"

"What?!"

"Where?!"

"Are you serious?!"

"_Silence_!" All voices, despite their volume, are quickly quietened by Megatron's roar, which also makes Shockwave's optic flicker, as the Decepticon scientist is still holding him upright. "Now, explain, Motormaster."

"… _Nice to hear you again, Sir._" The Stunticon leader answers calmly, a hint of almost relief in his voice. "_We found one of those Quinta-things—_"

"_Quintessons._" Skywarp's voice corrects absentmindedly, followed by the grumbling rumble of a powerful engine.

"_Quinta-_things_. We were held in a facility under one of the buildings. The _thing_ is dead in the room at the end of the main corridor. Had one of its faces shot through, and the explosions that destroyed the room mangled the body a bit, but it's still recognizable._"

"And you didn't kill it?" Sunstreaker asks with surprise, exchanging a confused look with his twin.

"_Would have loved to. But no, the Autobot officers got there first._"

"_What_?!"

This time, even Megatron joins in.

"_They found Starscream, Soundwave and the missing Autobot officers under the wreckage of the building._" Acid Storm answers instead, muttering heard softly on the background. "_The Autobots had weapons on them, and the Stunticons recognized them as the ones that shot the Quintesson. Well, that, and there's no bot else around here, only deactivated drones._"

A low yet loud whining of engines makes them all look up, at the Cybertronian-sized shuttle flying over them and to the Protectodome.

"_Is that Blitzwing?_" Skywarp asks once the sound has lowered enough for them to be able to hear the comm. "_Oh, never mind. We can see him now._"

"_If there isn't anything else, we'll see you back at Camp._" And, without really waiting for an answer, the line is closed.

Another shuttle, flying lower than the previous one, approaches them, landing easily once it gets close enough.

"And that would be our ride. Come on, mechs, we have work to do." Ironhide orders and, still a bit stunned and confused, the rest follow.

When the cargo doors open to let the ramp down, a human is waiting for them at the top, looking worried before smiling widely.

With a start, Skyfire realizes he _knows_ the human.

Judging by Optimus' tensing, the Autobot leader does too.

"Spike?" The young man startles at that, looking at the red and blue mech before frowning softly.

It is only then that the scientist sees the differences.

The boy is not Spike Witwicky.

The Prime sees it too, if the soft flash of surprise of his optics is to be believed.

"Uh, no. Sorry, you must have confused me with someone else." The human answers awkwardly, fidgeting a bit as the Autobot leader stops in front of him, kneeling down to be closer to the organic.

"You aren't Spike nor Daniel, yet you have a clear resemblance to them. Are you a cousin?"

"Optimus." Ironhide's voice is so solemn, so saddened, that whatever the human was about to answer is cut short as all eyes and optics turn to the red mech. "This is Sam Witwicky. He's Spike Witwicky's great-great grandson."

Silence.

And then, it slams into them with enough strength to make the Prime have to rest his servos on the ground, and Skyfire lean against the closest mech capable of supporting his weight, which happens to be the equally stunned Astrotrain.

"How—How long…" Megatron manages to get out, voice glitching as if his voice box was halfway through reboot, leaning more heavily on Shockwave.

"One-hundred and twenty-eight human years."

The Triple Changer's knee joints buckle, and it's by a miracle that the Shuttle's don't follow, allowing him to keep the Decepticon upright.

Judging by the clanging around him, not every bot manages.

"More than a vorn and a half. That's…"

"Many generations, for a human." Perceptor finishes from somewhere at the Flier's side, and a quick look reveals he's as stunned as the rest, though he's not on the ground.

Wheeljack, on the other servo, is sitting at the red scientist's pedes, helm fins flickering between bright red of alarm and muted gray of disbelief, optics alight yet unfocused.

Skyfire hears Shockwave's calm voice instructing them to board the shuttle, so that they can get to their main base to run the necessary medical scans and make sure everyone's alright before expanding on the whole story.

Almost in a trance, as if the orders to move had been put in his processor by an outside mech, the Autobot obeys, helping Astrotrain get inside, while scanning the ground out of habit, because there's a human here, there may be more, and it would too easy to overlook them and step on them.

The last thing he notes before letting himself fall on one of the Cybertronian-sized seats against the walls is that the Witwicky, so much like Spike, so much like young Daniel, is looking at the Protectodome mechs with the same awe as someone who has never seen them before, safe on Ironhide's shoulder.

It makes his tanks churn.

The Quintessons robbed them of their freedom, of their very identities, turned them into the slaves they had once been built to be.

The worst they have done, though, is steal their friends and family away.

And while they have got those lost outside the Protectodome back, Skyfire feels himself mimicking Bumblebee, looking away from the general direction of the Weapons Specialist and, consequently, the human.

Because there are some friends they will never get back.

_"Hey, Skyfire, can you take me to space?"_

_"To space? Why would you want to go there, Daniel?"_

_"Because Dad traveled a lot with you guys, but I haven't. And I want to see Earth from space!"_

_"Alright, alright. But we will have to ask your father first."_

_"Yes!"_

Turning his optics offline and resting his helm against the wall as the shuttle takes off, Skyfire wishes he still had the ability to produce tears.

* * *

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts, and his memories are so scattered that he can't make sense of anything.

So, he stays still for some more, trying to give himself the time needed to fully shake sleep away.

The tinkering sounds close by are making it hard to concentrate.

And he's _curious_.

So, slowly, carefully, he decides to take a look at the world.

The tinkering stops as he winces at the bright light, the pain intensifying for a bit before he manages to wrestle it down.

And then, he realizes there's someone by his side, talking.

Speaking _gibberish_.

"What…?" He croaks, voice almost crackling, and the other falls silent.

"Of course. Sorry, I should have realized before that you wouldn't have English as the default language. How are you feeling? How are your self diagnoses coming up?"

_What—? Oh, right. Dream._

"Sore." He answers at last, feeling calmer and with his voice not sounding so crackly. "Where am I?" He asks softly, trying to open his eyes again.

And finding bright blue staring down at him.

Really bright blue, as in, _glowing_ blue.

He jerks away in surprise, and the other being takes a step back.

"Hey, easy. It's a long story that I'll explain when I'm sure everything's in the green. So, how are your self diagnoses showing up?"

He doesn't answer, instead slowly sitting up.

He _can't_ answer, so stunned he is.

The other being, the one talking, is a _robot_.

A red-accented white robot with glowing spheres on chest and shoulders, glowing blue eyes and a black 'V'-like crest on its forehead.

"Fascinating." He manages after some blinks, when the image hasn't changed in the least.

"What's 'fascinating'?" The robot demands with what looks like a scowl, the blue eyes darkening.

Annoyance? Worry?

"This is a most curious dream." He muses out loud, looking around at the pristine white walls and the couple of strange metallic beds on the wall in front of his.

They are occupied by two other robots, both really different from the one talking to him, and seemingly offline, one a really dark blue with a wide chest, and the other matte black, with spidery legs, holes over the elbows and what look like wings extended parallel to the body at its sides.

"A dream?" The one online squeaks, and he turns to look at it, incredibly expressive face filled by surprise and astonishment.

"Why, yes." He answers absentmindedly, leaning back a bit to see the robot lying on the metallic bed by his own, half hidden by the white one standing at his side.

This one is like the dark blue in that it doesn't have wings, though it has a couple of horn-like protuberances on top of the head and a smaller size. It is the same matte black as the winged one, with its front, forearms and forelegs silvery-white.

It's also inactive.

And then, he realizes the online robot is still staring dumbfounded.

"Right, you are convinced this is reality, and I am not supposed to know this is a dream. Please, proceed as if normal. You were saying something about diagnoses?" The robot's eyes go black for a second before it rushes through the door. "I guess I said too much."

Before he can make up his mind about getting to his feet to investigate this incredibly realistic dream reality, the robot comes back, a datapad in his grasp that it is analyzing intently.

"—makes no sense." It mutters, falling silent as it finally reaches his side, eyes a dark blue he's almost sure it's concern looking into his. "Who am I?"

"I'm afraid you haven't introduced yourself." He answers, giving the robot a deadpanned look.

Seriously, what kind of question is that?

"And who are _you_?"

"You should be the one to introduce yourself first if you expect an answer." He admonishes, glaring a bit at the robot.

Surprisingly, his answer seems to cheer it up a bit, before it turns serious again.

"I'm Ratchet."

Not really expecting a name, least of all one so unusual, he can only blink in surprise for a second before reminding himself that he _really_ should introduce himself.

"I am Ron Fowler, Second in Command of the _Ark_ Protectodome Civilian Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers." The robot looks so distraught that he's sure it would have paled if such a thing was possible. "Nice to meet you." He adds for good measure, and that seems to snap the robot back into action.

Even if the action is clasping his arms tightly and shoving its face almost against his own, to his utter surprise.

"No, no, _no_! You _can't_ have said what you just did!" It shouts, shaking him a bit, before he manages to pull its hands away from him.

"Would you calm down? I have just—" His words die in his throat as he stares at the hands keeping the robot at arms length.

The hands and the forearms and the upper arms.

The metallic shiny silvery white hands, forearms and upper arms.

_His_ robotic hands, forearms and upper arms.

Completely awed at the realism, he lets the robot go and examines their mobility, their structure, how he can _feel_ every tiny movement, and how there's an almost soundless whirring every time he moves something.

This has to be the most vivid dream of his life.

He can feel the expectant gaze of the robot—Ratchet—on him, but he's more busy analyzing his now robotic body.

It looks so _real_… It should be an _engineer_'s dream, instead of his.

He huffs at the thought, bending his legs and toe-less feet, noticing how neither him nor any of the other robots is wearing anything resembling clothing.

Then again, why should they?

"Well?" Ratchet asks, hopeful and dreadful at the same time, and he looks up at it once he's finished poking at his ankle joints.

"Everything seems to be working." He answers calmly, deciding to not talk about this being a dream anymore, for the sake of this subconsciously created creature as complex as his own new body. "And the paint is really… shiny. Have I been waxed?" He asks, looking once more at his silvery white body, noticing the darker shade of silver of the joints and abdomen, and once more marveling at the realism of it all.

"Prowl." He startles at that, looking up at the robot in confusion, which only grows at the almost desperate look on that human-like face. "You don't know who 'Prowl' is, do you?"

"Should I?" He asks back, and Ratchet's eyes go black. "Well, if it is important I'm sure it will come up."

Wrong words.

Metallic hands are around his upper arms once more, shaking him almost violently, and he can only stare in surprise into the overtly bright blue eyes.

"Frag it all, Prowl, stop this! You've got to react, to come back! There's no more coding, no more fake data! All that's left is your own, so stop acting like—!"

The shouting stops as he manages to push the robot off him, quickly getting off the bed to have something between them.

"Yes, perhaps it would be better to wake up." He muses out loud, but that only sends Ratchet into another tantrum, eyes going black as its body stiffens, head held down to scream at the metallic bed.

Quieter than he expected from a metallic body, he steps away from the unstable figment of his imagination, willing himself to wake up.

So much realism is starting to become unnerving.

Concentrated on the robot as he is, he doesn't realize there's something behind him until he stumbles with it, taking a wobbling step to the side as he tries to keep his balance—

A wave of pain rushes through his body setting every nerve alight as it burns through his spine, and his pained cry is nothing more than static.

When the agony has passed some, he's face down on the ground, a hand between his still ablaze shoulder blades as a voice mutters unintelligibly over him.

With a scratchy moan of pain, he tries to shift a bit, but the hand presses down just enough to let him know he has to stay still, though without harming him further.

"Wha—appened?" He croaks, the dream still clear in his mind as he opens his eyes—

Shiny silvery white hands tense as he does, the arms they are attached to angled as if they were his own.

All thought frozen in shock, he curls his right hand's index finger—

And the metallic equivalent in front of him moves.

Small pinpricks of pain, like those that run through the arm after hitting the elbow, course up and down his spine as he starts to shake, feeling the hand get off his back as something else, something big and warm and _alive_ presses on it instead.

Breathing shallow, he looks over a shiny metallic shoulder that looks more like an armor plate—

And sees something silvery white that resembles a cape trembling visibly over his back.

The left half twitches.

And then the right.

With a crazy thought, he tries to lift them as he would a finger—

And the short, wide and pointy-ended wing-like appendages obey.

This is not a dream.

"No… No, no, no no no no _no no no_—"

"Prowl, you need to calm down—Prowl!" He turns around sharply, feeling the wing-like plates press against his back, as turns to stare at a worried looking Ratchet. "Prowl—"

"Get away from me!" He shrieks, scooting away without turning his back to the robot, his whole body trembling with an audible tingling of metal against metal, fear and horror clearly visible on his usually emotionless features.

The creature kneeling in front of him startles before reaching for him with worry in his face and glowing eyes—

"I said _get away_!" He roars, the sound coming from his chest and sounding like his hover-car's engine at maximum power, the wings snapping wide open as he snarls.

The robot throws itself away with a burst of static that should have been a gasp had it been human, pale blue eyes bright just before it looks away and seems to relax.

Still trembling, still feeling fear and horror and disbelief coursing through his now metallic body like electricity—though it _may_ be electricity, and he thinks it something else—he observes the hunched red-marked white creature huddling at a safe distance from him, head lowered and eyes black as if trying to avoid his attention.

"Get away. Get away, get away, _get away_." He whimpers, his wings—wings, _wings_, how could he have_ wings_?—pressing once more against his back as he closes his eyes—and wonders, are they really closed or have they gone black, like the robot's?—and clasps his head with his hands, feeling a migraine taking hold of him—

Red pops in his vision, despite his eyes being closed, writing sentences about energy levels rising dangerously, and about overstimulated nodes, and about the best course of action being to reduce the input and deactivate things—

"What have you done to me?" He whispers, shaking growing harsher as he curls into himself, the tingling growing to clanging.

"Prowl—"

"Don't call me that!" He shouts, glaring at the robot still seating in front of him, though once more maintaining eye contact. "I'm Commander Fowler, Ron, even _Ronald_! But I am not this _thing_ you've turned me into!"

"We haven't turned you into anything, we rescued you from those who reprogrammed you all!"

"I'm not a machine, I can't be reprogrammed!" He shouts, standing up in a flash of fury, wings once more wide open, and Ratchet scrambles to get back to its feet. "I'm not a robot, I'm _human_!"

The creature's mouth opens, as if about to retort, but its face contorts with despair a second later as it takes a step back.

"You really… but we made sure you…" Its blue eyes roam over the room, stopping on each of the still inactive robots, and Fowler feels something inside him curl, small gaskets shutting in what should have been a clenching of his stomach.

"Who are they." It's an order and, a bit startled, the robot turns to look at him.

He feels his wings hitch higher, and blue eyes quickly look away.

Slowly, Ratchet's hand gestures to the matte black winged robot.

"Starscream." Without looking, it points at the dark blue robot lying on the table next to the first. "Soundwave." And, trembling a bit, it turns to the black and white one that is next to his table. "Jazz."

A sound suspiciously like that of an engine 'coughing' a bubble of air echoes from his chest, but his mind is on other matters instead of his body.

"Jazz? Jazz Smith? Third in Command and Head of Special Operations? _That_ Jazz?" The robot lets its hand fall to its side and doesn't look up, but that's more than enough. "Get out of here. Unless you are going to give our bodies back, get _out of here_." He hisses, a soft growling from his chest filling the room, growing louder when Ratchet steps away.

Near the door, the robot stops and points at what looks like an access pad next to it.

"If you need anything, press the red button and say you need me here. I'll come back as soon as I can." His growl just intensifies, and, without a look or further words, the metallic creature walks out of the room, the automatic door closing at its back and clicking as it locks.

All sound dies and, feeling his migraine grow, he walks wobbly to where the robot identified as Jazz is lying, not knowing who the other two are.

There's a flimsy looking chair nearby, but it holds his weight, so he pulls it next to what he hopes is his fellow officer and curls in his seat, torso lying on the table and head resting on his crossed arms.

He feels the wings lay slowly on his back and, with a static sound that should be a sob, burrows his face in his metallic forearms.

"Please, _please_, let it be a hallucination, let me be wasted, let me be suffering some kind of mental lapse, but _please_ let this _not be real_. Please, _please_…"

He hears himself beg and plead and cry over and over and over, the tinkling of metal on metal as he shivers accompanying his voice, but he doesn't look up nor open his eyes as he tries to ignore the tingling and extra weight on his back.

When a message pops against his closed eyelids, or what he hopes are his closed eyelids, about entering recharge cycle, he accepts without thought, not stopping his pleas even as his body grows numb and darkness takes him.

* * *

**AN:** So... That's it. Feel free to shout at me ;P


	23. Turnabout

The frame may be different, but as he watches the recording from the security cameras in the Repair Bay, Optimus recognizes the gestures.

The twitching doorwings that mean curiosity as the recently reactivated mech looks around.

The flashing of blue optics in surprise and awe as he inspects his frame, and their darkening in annoyance at Ratchet's unexpected grab.

The helm thrown back with the mouth open in unbelievable pain as a stumble makes him collide against the wall doorwings first.

And the fanning of them as he finally realizes the situation, along the snarling and imposing stance, all of them shows of strength, threats, to hide fear.

With a soft push of one key, the recording closes and the current Repair Bay appears onscreen.

Silvery white doorwings still tremble on the unmoving mech's back, pressed as close to him as the frame is to Jazz's still stasis-locked form, faceplate hidden against the forearm plating.

"—all the checks came in clear!"

Finally turning his attention to the mix of officers, both Autobot and Decepticon, with him in the room, the Prime is welcomed by the sight of Ratchet fuming over the datapad he's looking over with Shockwave.

"So they did. Curious, that hasn't happened before." The Decepticon scientist answers calmly, touching something on the pad, as the medic starts pacing.

"Curious?! _Curious_! That's all you have to say?!"

"Ratchet, old friend, you need to calm down." The red and blue mech interjects before his fellow Autobot can start ranting again about the situation.

"How am I supposed to calm down, Optimus? Prowl can only understand Cybertronian, he doesn't know where we are and, oh, there's this teeny tiny detail that he thinks he's _still that accursed human facade_!"

"Stop shouting, medic. I swear, you're worse than Starscream." Megatron growls from his spot leaning against a table, a serious yet not threatened Ironhide standing at his side with almost the same annoyed and worried scowl on his faceplate.

Curious, how the two of them are more alike than it may seem at first sight.

No wonder they were such a good team back in the Protectodome.

"Wouldn't _you_ be shouting if it had been your dear Starscream who'd woken up thinking he's still _Reeds_?" Ratchet snarls back, and the Decepticon leader tenses and stands up, taking a couple of menacing steps closer—

"That possibility is likely to happen." All optics turn to Shockwave and, after a second, the scientist looks up from the pad. "If one of them is still under Quintesson control despite exhibiting no signs, it's highly possible that the other three are too."

"Even if the Quintesson is dead?" Ironhide questions calmly, but the way his plating seems to press closer to his protoform tells of his worry.

"According to what has been recovered from the laboratory's database, some of the last orders were the cessation of the electromagnetic pulses distorting the sensory arrays and the erasure of the control protocols, but most of the history was lost in the explosion. We can't be sure something else wasn't tried on them, least of all if they deviated from their fake identities prior to such orders." The Decepticon answers calmly, and Optimus exchanges a worried look with Megatron.

A week ago, they walked out of the broken Protectodome and into a world they had been away from for 1'5366 vorn, one-hundred and twenty-eight of the human's years.

Since then, they've managed to repair their injured, as best as they could, and try to reacquaint themselves with a time and environment they never realized they'd been taken away from.

Fortunately, Ironhide, Shockwave and the rest of Cybertronian, both those 'recovered' or never captured in the first place, helped in that.

During that time, they've also recovered the Quintesson dead body, which is now on a dissection table in the science labs, and all intact data from its computer mainframes, something that's far less than they would have liked.

One of the few things they managed to get of it was that all modifications of the 'Protectodome Cybertronian' were reinforced by a timed pulsing of certain electromagnetic waves, which dulled their sensory suits so that they didn't realize the difference between the drones conforming the majority of the 'population' and the real mechs, as well as to dull the disparity between what the forced coding told them of their frames and the reality they could sense.

The only things their sensors registered were the small signals each individual mech sent about their bodies, which is the reason Optimus never clapped Prowl on the back and kept a distance from him that was, _casually_, the needed so as to not slam into his doorwings, per example.

The lack of such nullifiers, along the erasure of the control coding, are the reason the flying Cassettes could transform safely to get down to ground level, since their own codes and sensors weren't being restricted nor blocked, and thus didn't redirect them to the fake memories implanted on them when they joined the 'Military'.

Nevertheless, Shockwave examined them and got rid of every trace of interference.

As he did with every single one of them.

And yet, Prowl still thinks he's Fowler.

"So, Jazz, Soundwave and Starscream will think they are their fake personae when they online." Ironhide grumbles, looking at the screens depicting the Repair Bay. "And we have no reason as to why."

"There's also the possibility that the situation with Prowl was a flux, a remnant of the Quintessons' programming that his processor hadn't had time to properly flush before his coming back online." Shockwave supplies calmly, his attention once more on the pad.

"Well, he _did_ online sooner than we expected him to." Ratchet mutters softly, voice carefully neutral, but optics a bit paler than usual in the smallest hint of hope. "If I understood right what you explained about the cleansing process, you can only erase the control protocols, which leaves the memories for the mech to sort."

"Precisely." The Decepticon scientist answers with a small dipping of his helm, and Optimus finds himself surprised once more, despite all the times during the past week when he's seen such casual acts.

Which is the same he feels every time Ironhide's extended patience and his new habit of thinking some more before acting make an appearance.

And yet, he knows he shouldn't be surprised that, during the sixty-four years of partnership, the Autobot and Decepticon co-leaders of the resistance movement have influenced each other.

A quick look to Megatron reveals the other mech to be thinking the same as their optics meet.

And then, they both vent air in a short burst, what would have been a snort, as they realize their temporary Seconds aren't the only ones who have influenced the other.

Ironhide and Shockwave's knowing glint in their optics at the sound is more than enough to tell them they know that too.

"I'm afraid that the thing with Prowl wasn't a lapse." Ratchet's horrified and defeated voice takes their attention and, confused and dreadful, they all step next to the medic, now sitting in front of the monitors and staring at them with a crushed expression.

The Repair Bay has cameras installed, as per security protocols, but it has no microphones to keep some measure of privacy.

They don't need to hear to know the reason behind Ratchet's sentence.

The way a now online Jazz is looking down at his own servos, and how Prowl is gesturing slightly, doorwings still pressed tight against his back, is more than enough for them to realize the mech on the chair is Ron Fowler, and the one on the berth is Jazz Smith.

The Head of Spec Ops turns to his companion and starts poking at his arm and shoulder plates as the silvery white Cybertronian quietens a bit, though his mouth is still moving as he explains.

Jazz tilts his helm, stopping his prodding, as the other finishes his speech.

And then, he tries to rub a hand against his helm in a confused gesture, but ends up slapping one of his sensory horns, now thinner and curved slightly backwards.

Both Autobots and Decepticons wince when the saboteur jumps in his seat as if shocked, mouth opened in what would be a yowl of pain.

As they watch a worried and freaked Prowl stand awkwardly near his fellow ground-bound Cybertronian, doorwings spread wide and twitching, trying to calm down a now hunched over Jazz, those in the control room turn to each other.

"Looks like they have their sensory suits rammed at maximum input." Ironhide comments, a half-wince half-scowl on his faceplate. "How in the Pit are they going to turn them down if they still think they're human?"

"Perhaps it isn't a problem of the sensory suits." Ratchet muses, optics slightly darker as he looks at the calmer mechs onscreen, conversing with wide gestures. "Perhaps it's a side effect of the sensory suppression we were subjected to under the Protectodome."

"But we didn't online like that." Megatron puts in, scowling at the mere thought of what it would have felt like, with his damaged ankle joint.

"We're working with the theory that the Quintessons did something to the four of them, that, for whatever reason, they were the subjects of another—" The medic cuts himself with a flash of blue optics, stunned, and all the others turn to him. "For… whatever reason… Primus…"

"What?" Ironhide questions, poking his fellow Autobot, something that snaps him out of his trance.

"The flu. The brain hemorrhaging." And while Shockwave and the Weapons Specialist look at each other in confusion, Megatron and Optimus exchange a look of realization.

_"This is too much coincidence, August. What if…"_

_"What if?"_

_"What if it _wasn't_ coincidence?"_

_"What? But, Ryan said…"_

_"And half a year ago? Don't you think it weird it was the two of them too, then?"_

_"_… _Oh…"_

_"I want Spec Ops in on this."_

_"I'll talk with Fowler. What am I—"_

_"Tell him to send an agent to talk with me."_

_"You have your suspicions, don't you."_

_"I do."_

_"_… _Well?"_

_"_… _For your own sake, don't ask me to elaborate. The less you know, the less chance of you or your own being targeted."_

"But they were targeted nevertheless." Optimus whispers under his breath, and he can feel confused optics on him.

"They knew. They knew _something_, and those damned—" Megatron's words are cut by his roar as the Decepticon leader rounds to punch a fist-sized dent into the wall.

The following curses are what snap the Prime out of his haze, only to find the other three staring at him with expectation as the black mech keeps venting his ire against the wall.

"You think _that_ was the Quintessons' doing? That Starscream, Soundwave, Jazz and Prowl somehow knew about the whole situation and they targeted them?" Ratchet whispers, servos trembling lightly before he curls them into tight fists. "That is… that is crazy, they—"

_"Take that! Not even the Black Beasts and the Black Plague can deal with the Jazzmeister!"_

_"Prowler! I never thought I would say this, but you're just the sight for weary optics, my mech!"_

_"I've said no! Not now, not in a month, not in a million vorn! So go tell that Pit-spawn of Storm that he can go out there himself if he wants a picture of those Black Beasts so badly!"_

_"Oh, how about with Sanders? Years of barely tolerating each other, and after ten days in quarantine you're best friends."_

_"Would you just use the brain in your cranium and really _look_? They've been working together for years, and closely at that, and they've just lost people really close to them. _That_ is two people who are as close as siblings comforting each other after their losses, not whatever is going through _that_ brain of yours."_

_"You _dare_. You dare throw away the efforts of those who valiantly fought against the monsters by calling them _puppets_? You dare classify us, think us different because of who we are? You dare judge people by that glitched belief that we are slaves, out future determined before we even come to exist? You dare taint the memory of those who sacrificed themselves for the future?"_

_"Don't you dare get any closer, slagger. In fact, you better start to get away or I'm going to dismantle you and smelt you while making sure you can feel every instant of it."_

_"There was no way I was going to let those terrorists get out there fully functional. We have enough slag to deal with to add more to it. Now, can I go see how my boss is doing?"_

_"I'm _done_ with you bunch of aft-heads! Sit on a screw and turn around, you Pit rejects! The Unmaker himself would be disgusted if he ever met you, sparkless scrapheaps! We're _people_! We're alive, we _feel_, unlike you pile of rust-eaten junk! We are _not_ leaving, we are _not_ going anywhere when all it will take for _all_ of us to pull through is you sending some supplies to repair the Protectodome!"_

_"I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me."_

_"There was nothing in sight, but memories left abandoned."_

_"I remembered each flash, as time began to blur."_

_"There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow."_

_"Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me."_

_"And the ground caved in between where we were standing."_

_"And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve."_

"They knew." Optimus' voice is a whisper, though it sounds almost too loud despite the fans trying to cool his overheating frame. "They _knew_."

"Primus." He sees Megatron take a couple of steps back, as if trying to keep his balance, optics almost white as a servo reaches for the Decepticon's helm. "Starscream was calling Skywarp, and Soundwave was—" His sentence ends in static as his voice box reboots, as if trying to purge those words, that thought.

"All along, they knew." Prime repeats, all those curious and even everyday scenes flashing in his processor with a completely different meaning. "They…" Servos grab his arm, helping him stay upright, and he finds himself looking down into Ironhide's worried faceplate. "They knew, they _knew_…"

Almost without thought, he turns to see Shockwave guide his leader to a chair, the Autobot medic already on another, helm in his servos and optics black, before turning to the screen, where a too tense Soundwave is getting off of his berth while the two Autobots speak to him, Jazz gesturing madly and Prowl's doorwings shivering and twitching enough that his fear and worry don't need to be visible on his faceplate.

Slowly, the Communications Officer walks to be next to Starscream, with the other two falling silent and stiffening, as if expecting the Seeker to bolt upright.

He doesn't.

The dark blue mech points to a wing, and his lips start to move, visible without the mask.

Jazz gets to his pedes and approaches the Decepticons, Prowl following with curiosity and dread, and their optics and visor pale in surprise as Soundwave keeps talking, his pointing dactyl signaling an arm before turning to the hip-latches and, finally, to the shoulder-mounted parted nosecone in place of the shoulder vents.

And then, the Head of Spec Ops points at Starscream's scarred face, which Ratchet refused to repair since it was the Air Commander's decision to keep the burns back in the Protectodome, and taking that mark away without the mech's consent didn't feel right, and the three of them fall silent, with some of the tension vanishing from their frames.

Soundwave's servo slowly rests on top of a matte black one and squeezes softly.

And Optimus remembers Civilian Government's Communications Center, but sees two mechs instead of two humans, forehelms pressed together in that wordless promise to _always keep you in sight and processor, always there for you, no matter what_, and the great amount of trust in letting a clawed Seeker servo on the fragile chest cover of a Cassette-carrier, with only glass-metal and a thin metallic layer covering the spark chamber, protecting his _creations_, and allowing a ground-bound mech to touch—to _grab—_the strut connecting wing to the back struts—

And a _telepath_ letting Starscream anywhere close to his processor, while the fastest Cybertronian _ever_ allowing Soundwave to be in a position where he could take that speed away—

An ill-fated meeting, from the moment he stepped into Enforcers HQ, with the Commander-in-Chief at his lowest point showing weakness in front of such a dangerous and double-edged individual as the Head of Spec Ops—showing weakness _because_ it was Jazz there—and daring to stand up, to even try to _attack_ the most powerful and influential man in the Protectodome to protect someone who didn't need to be shielded from _anything_—

And said someone letting him, just stepping back and staying close, a gentle touch on a shoulder to guide the man through his rage, a gesture of thankfulness for that seemingly unneeded reaction—

Four men standing tall and strong next to each other, and if he thought the Protectodome firm before, it looked like the weakest plate of rusted metal when compared to those burning gazes and the stances he didn't recognize back then.

Jazz killed fifty-three people—who now they know were drones, likely to have been programmed to distract them—and declared war to a whole Protectodome to protect these three others.

Prowl disregarded all logic in facing those more powerful, in acting without thinking, in letting himself be guided by feelings and emotions, and infiltrated an unknown base to free these three others.

Soundwave trusted his creations and the mech under all the barriers not even Megatron had ever seen through to not only one, but three people, and stood against a whole world of monsters to give a chance to these three others.

Starscream fought against death, over and over, and even pushed back a fate that should have claimed him long before he broke through the Protectodome to shield the rest from the falling building, all to keep these three others safe.

And Optimus, who just stood there and played good puppet for the Quintessons, has his identity back while the mechs that freed them paid the ultimate price.

For their frames are still pulsing with life, but the ones that are occupying them are artificial personae based on the real them, fakes that will look at Megatron or the Prime, and never know who they are or were to them.

They are free at the price of their friends' identities, their _selves_.

The Quintessons have won.

"They still have the memories. And their sparks."

But it's a thin hope, and Shockwave's emotionless voice conveys that well.

Yes, there's the chance that they've been scrambled worse than the rest of them, and, as such, it will take more time for them to recover, but no one knows what _else_ has been done to them.

Or even if the memory data in their processors is the Cybertronian's or the human's.

For all they know, the same pulse that pushed the human protocols and function programs back and brought the Cybertronian's to the forefront has done the opposite to them, more so if—no.

There's no _if_.

They knew.

They were Cybertronian while all the rest were human.

And they reversed the effects.

Optimus can only watch as the dark blue mech takes a seat next to the Seeker's berth, not releasing the servo, while the two Autobots drag two more chairs to curl against the Communications Officer and themselves as they settle to wait for their fourth to wake up.

And he sees it again, how four outcasts, different from the rest of the world because of circumstances not under their control, because of them being the only ones to realize things are different, take a united stand against what has no right to be real.

Smith's lying position against the doorwinger's arm is like that of a cat, looking impossibly comfortable yet ready to bolt or attack at the first sign of trouble, his darkened, almost black, visor fixed on the door.

Fowler doesn't react to the mech practically draped over him, just twitches a doorwing to have the other move a micron to allow it full range while he encircles the Cassette-carrier's shoulders with his free arm, tugging him to rest against his chest plates.

Sanders slowly complies, leaning more comfortably on the silvery white metal, but not once looking away from matte black faceplate nor releasing the hold on the servo trapped between his.

But red optics stay dark, frame unmoving, wings not even twitching as the dark blue forearm plates rest on one of them.

So, Optimus waits.

Even if he doesn't know if he's waiting for Starscream to come back online—or Steve Reeds.

* * *

**AN:** And now, a short scene. The actual AN comes after it.

* * *

The Rec Room erupts in laughter as the door opens, and Ironhide can't hold back his scowl.

Nor his curiosity.

Firmly, he enters and looks around, watching his fellow Autobots busy chatting among themselves or looking over pads, but none of them seem to be the source of—

A new bout of laughter quickly helps him find the culprits.

Jazz, of course.

Surrounded by the twins, Bumblebee and Bluestreak, but, taking into account he's smiling innocently while the others have their fans working non-stop to cool their overheating frames, he _has_ to be the reason for their laughter.

So, without hesitation, the Weapons Specialist walks to their table and sits down in front of the saboteur.

"What have you done this time?" He asks casually, taking a sip from his Energon before putting the cube down, and the rest of mechs, minus the Third in Command, rev their engines in amusement again.

"Why, is something wrong? What am I being accused of this time?" The Head of Spec Ops asks, an obviously fake innocent smile on his faceplate.

"You're being accused of nothing. I just want to have some good laughs." The red Autobot answers with a lazy smirk, quickly mirrored by the smaller mech.

"M'dear Ironhide, 'tis is a matter of no laughter!" Yet The Weapons Specialist's engine revs, because the tone and gestures used are plainly ridiculous and overtly theatrical. "I have been endangering myself, dealing with the most perilous beasts encountered in this planet—what am I saying! In this whole galaxy!" Bumblebee and Bluestreak huddle together, trying to keep their amused purring as quiet as possible, while the twins and Ironhide have no such worries. "Yes, that's so. And I shouldn't be there at all, if I'd known more about it before I started. But I suppose it's often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Ironhide, adventures, as I used to call them." Startled out of his mirth by the more solemn and almost wistful tone of the saboteur's voice, the red mech can only stare at the Head of Spec Ops as his visor darkens as if lost in memory. "I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of sport, as you might say. But that's not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the processor." The whole Rec Room falls silent, all optics and audials turned to the black and white mech. "Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like I, of turning back, only they didn't. And if they had, we shouldn't know, because they'd have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on, and not all to a good end, mind you, at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same. But those aren't always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we've fallen into?" The question goes unanswered as every-bot tries to put things together, try to decipher what's been said, so Jazz continues with a lower yet not less unheard tone. "I wonder. But I don't know. And that's the way of a real tale. Take any one that you're fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don't know. And you don't want them to."

A shiver racks Ironhide's frame, the solemnity of the moment somehow turning ominous. Foreboding.

"Are you done, or do you have something else to add?"

The whole room seems to shake as its occupants jump in surprise at the deadpanned voice from the door.

Quickly recovering, Ironhide turns to see Prowl standing there, arms crossed under his bumper and optics half lit in exasperation and fixed on Jazz's wide grin.

"Well, yes, sir, I do…" The saboteur answers, getting up from his seat and snatching the Weapons Specialist's forgotten cube. "I mean, I got everything I need right here with me. I got air through my fans, a few blank datapads. I mean, I love onlining in the morning not knowing what's gonna happen, or who I'm gonna meet, where I'm gonna wind up. Just the other night I was recharging under a bridge and now here I am on the grandest ship in the world having Energon with you fine people." He takes a long sip before putting the cube down and looking at the rest of Autobots. "I figure existence's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what pieces you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take activation time as it comes at you… to make each orn count."

"What am I going to do with you?" The tactician asks softly, turning his optics offline for a nanoklik, and so missing the flash of mischievousness on the Head of Spec Ops' faceplate.

"What am I going to do with you?" Jazz repeats almost conversationally, shaking his helm and also crossing his arms under his bumper. "You simply won't… deactivate. Are we so different, you and I? You take sparks when you have to… as I do." And with a shift of his stance, the casual standing turns firm as the visor darkens. "I have only one more spark to take. Then it is done."

"Then take it now."

The room stills and time stops at the SIC's answer.

And then, Jazz looks up at the ceiling and his visor goes black.

"Give me the strength to deactivate well."

Prowl's annoyed ex-vent makes the rest of Autobots jump once more in surprise.

"Refrain from quoting human cinematographic productions. And stop crawling through the vents in search for 'security problems' without telling either myself or Red Alert, or Ratchet will make sure you can't crawl anymore."

Silence.

And then, Jazz's whine and protests of Prowl being 'no fun' are drowned in a wave of roaring laughter.

A vorn and a half later, Ironhide can't hold back his scowl as the Rec Room erupts in laughter when the door opens.

Nor his curiosity.

The twins, Bluestreak and Bumblebee are the source of the noise once more, but this time there's no Jazz there as the culprit.

Though, as he approaches, the Weapons Specialist finds himself smiling once more.

"—loved to be there. I've got to learn how he did that!" Sideswipe exclaims, a big smile on his faceplate.

"I would tell you if I knew, but that's Jazz for you. If he hadn't told us he had been the one to mess with the radio, no one would have known!" The Praxian answers, making them laugh once more.

"I heard about that! Fowler was _so_ angry when he told Prime, but August—I mean, Optimus, he started laughing as soon as the door closed." The Minibot adds, optics dimming as thinks back to the memory.

So, Ironhide smiles and approaches casually, asking for the reason of their mirth, and, as he listens to the story of how all radio stations in Enforcers Headquarters started spewing the mushiest love ballads courtesy of a certain saboteur, he laughs as much as the rest.

Jazz has always known how to make things interesting, whether he's in a human mindset or his original Cybertronian.

And Prowl has never found it funny.

Amidst laughter, there's no sign of it, but Ironhide hopes there will be more stories like this one to share, not far from now, because that would mean they have their friends back.

But, for now, he'll catch up on what he's missed.

Gladly.

* * *

**AN:** Some things in this chapter aren't accurate when compared to how the story has happened. Why? Because they are seen from Optimus' point of view (and Megatron's and Ratchet's). _That_ was a headache.

About the short scene: The (modified) quotes from 'human cinematographic productions' are, in order of appearance, from: _The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers_, _Titanic_, _Gladiator_ and _Braveheart_.

**Angel Heart:** I'm glad you like the twist this story has taken. To be honest, it shouldn't have happened, but somehow it did and... well, it's out of my power now. As to how it will go... Well, 'wait and see' ;)

I love any and all kinds of wings too, so I couldn't not use them XD

As for the short scenes, I write them on request. It's alright if you don't have any you'd like to see now, but I'm afraid I can't offer without being given at least some information (either the characters that should appear, the one whose POV is written...). Nevertheless, I'll wait :D

About the second review: I originally intended to have Daniel as Sam's grandfather, and still being around (there was supposed to be a really emotion-filled scene of their reunion, but instead it turned into them confusing Sam with Spike), but, as with many other things, it didn't happen. It just... started changing slowly, and ended up with Bay-verse humans taking the part of G1's.

I hope the questions about the Quintesson got solved here, as well as those regarding the rest of the Main Four and Optimus ;P

Thanks for everything and read you later!


	24. Drabble: Dream Haze

**AN:** This is not an actual chapter, it's an interlude. It includes Jazz and Soundwave/Sanders' point of view of their 'awakening'.

* * *

_Never. Drinking. Again._

His head hurts, his body hurts, and there's this strange taste in his mouth, as if it's filled with… plastic?

_What did I do last night?_

He can't remember. And while Jazz has drunk his fair share of times, sometimes to the point he's ended acting like an idiot, he's Spec Ops.

He never let himself be impaired by alcohol, and drinking to the point of oblivion is _certainly_ out of the question.

But the lack of memories isn't the worst of the situation.

No, the gold medal belongs to the buzzing in his brain, in his ears, in the part of brain coming _out_ of his ears.

And to the fact that he has experienced it before.

Only once, and the memory was forgotten, lost in the tangle of images, sounds and sensations that conform the most tumultuous time in his life.

His first memories.

The Black Day.

Not giving any outward signs of being awake, Jazz studies his surroundings.

Sturdy, smooth and strangely cold surface under him, most likely a metallic table—_the heck?_—no clothing or sheet covering him, letting him feel the comfortably cool air in a big room—_nude on the operation table, oh my_—with two other unconscious occupants further away and someone sitting by his side, trembling in despair and horror while still being out of it.

_Wait, what?_

Startled by his own heightened perception, Jazz turns and opens his eyes.

And immediately wishes he hadn't done so.

Not as much because of the bundle of silvery white metal leaning on his table-bed, but because he hasn't felt his eyes opening.

In fact, he can't _feel_ his eyes.

And yet, he can see.

Something on the humanoid robot's back twitches, and blue light spills from the spaces between the crossed arms it's hiding its head behind.

The metallic planes shiver and lift, and Jazz finally realizes they are short wings.

The robot straightens, and their eyes—or whatever the Head of Spec Ops has now that allows him to see—meet.

The two blue crystals on the too human-like face pale as what looks like a tentative smile makes its lips twitch.

Is it… _happy_ to see him awake?

"Jazz?"

Slowly, too stunned to do more than gape, the Civilian Third sits up.

He knows that voice, metallic tinge or not.

"Ron?"

Oh, and would you look at that? His own voice is slightly metallic too.

And the smile blooms in relief, those short wings he doesn't know what to think about _fluttering_ in what he knows is happiness—

Before they press back down against Fowler's—_Fowler's_?—back as despair fills the silvery white being that is his friend and boss.

… He can feel the headache growing, the eery tingling from the brain-out-of-his-ears not helping in the slightest.

"This is going to sound really bizarre, but it's the truth."

The Head of Spec Ops finds himself agreeing despite the tale he's being told of robots putting them in metallic bodies—that are cool and awesome and so realistic and sensitive that they are as their own flesh and bone bodies—and expecting them to be perfectly content with them is as bizarre as the weirdest sci-fi story he's ever read.

And yes, Jazz reads, and because he _likes_ it, not only out of duty.

Though none of his texts could have prepared him for finding his hands, along the rest of his body, being a mass of cables and gears and chips covered by shiny white and matte black plating.

It's… kind of awesome, in a way.

Curious, and still listening to Ron talk about the robot doctor Ratchet and their conversation, he turns to his companion.

They are as different as when they were still human, meaning that he can see them being the same, but they are undoubtedly their own individuals.

Just in case, though, he takes a better look at the Civilian Second.

Meaning, he grabs an arm and twists, pokes and investigates as much as possible.

Which is a lot, seeing how Fowler is more busy with his retelling than with shoving him away.

"—that was when it left and I… came to sit by your side. I don't know who _they_ are supposed to be."

As all the times he's mentioned _them_ in their conversation turned monologue, the silvery white being doesn't turn to look at the still unconscious other robots, so Jazz doesn't either.

To tell the truth, he's a bit unnerved too, not knowing whether they are humans that have also been turned into machines, or if that is their natural state.

So, the Head of Spec Ops stops his investigating and looks up at his friend.

Kind of.

He's still not sure if he has the _eyes_ for such a gesture.

Yes, Fowler has those two eye-like things that can be perfectly referred to as such, but Jazz can't _feel_ two separate elements on his face.

He pushes that feeling away and concentrates on the Civilian Second, because at least he can _try_ to deal with that.

So, he ponders what he's been told, what he _feels_ like he knows, and what his gut—or is it a fuel tank now?—tells him.

And only realizes he's reached up with a hand to rub at the side of his head the instant before the tingling of his brain becomes an electric jab.

He yelps at the jolt of pain, a part of him screaming in pain while another wonders how his _brain_ can be hurting when he's touched his head—isn't there some kind of _plating_ to protect it, or what?

A couple of seconds later, when the pain has dulled back to tingling, he realizes Fowler is hovering worriedly next to him with his wings wide open and shivering softly.

That… isn't as funny or weird as he thought it would be.

In fact, it's… scary, as if thousands of eyes were suddenly on him.

And for a Spec Ops agent, specially the _Head_ of Spec Ops, that is a _nightmare_.

It's so _wrong_ that his brain is suddenly working overboard to solve it.

That all possible solution sets end with Fowler's death—though his brain calls it _deactivation of the opposing mech—_is not precisely reassuring.

Which is why he hurries so much to try to calm the other man that he doesn't even think about the words.

When the Civilian Second starts to look more amused than worried, Jazz's brain finally catches up with his mouth.

And falls silent when he hears himself making a list of situations where he's been worse than he is now, many of which refer to _embarrassing_ scenes.

_Well, at least he's not freaking out anymore. Nor freaking _me_ out._

And that's when they finally notice one of their roommates is also awake and slowly standing up.

Jazz meets the dark blue robot's deep red visor with a calm that, strangely, comes from inside, as if, despite not even knowing a name, the other was trustworthy.

The only thing to cross his brain is realization and the shame of someone who has been blind to what was in front of them.

_How could I feel my eyes when my visual sensors are arranged in a visual band instead of optics?_

… _What did I just _think_?_

* * *

John Sanders awakes to voices he doesn't recognize.

Though, after some seconds, he realizes who they are.

The metallic sound of them, along their words, are what keeps him still and silent.

Robots transforming humans into metallic beings, some kind of doctor called Ratchet—and why does he feel like tensing at the name?—and a yelp.

He opens his eyes—and freezes yet again, even when one of the voices is worriedly asking for the other's health and the second is reassuring the first.

He can see the ceiling, but whatever has changed, it hasn't felt like opening his eyes.

When he slowly sits up, feeling whirs of joints and tensing of wires instead of the push and pull of muscles and tendons, he quickly locates the origin of the voices.

The shapes are humanoid, despite the short and wide wings on the silvery white one and the horns on the black and white still sitting on the table, but there's no mistaking them.

Civilian Second and Third, Ron Fowler and Jazz Smith.

They fall silent and turn to him, and, despite the strange bodies, he doesn't tense nor feel anything that isn't calm and comfort.

He… actually, he feels better knowing the two of them are with him wherever they are, and in his same situation.

And it isn't only because of the blue visor meeting what he now knows is his own.

Though he has the strange feeling that his visual band is _not_ blue.

It's almost a certainty, in fact.

And he's _not_ worried nor surprised, yet again.

That is a source of concern in itself.

"You said _robots_ turned us into this?" He asks, and sees the other two tense and blue flash paler as they recognize his voice.

"That's what the one that was here before said. He identified himself as Ratchet, and is some kind of doctor." Fowler adds, calmer than before, as if the Communications Officer's presence is as calming to him as theirs is to John.

"Yeah, and that's not the worst! Can you imagine that—!" Smith starts to gesture wildly as he repeats what he's already heard, but the Military Third turns his attention inward, to the comfort born from the knowledge the other two are there.

That… is something that needs to be looked into, too.

And about studying certain things…

For the first time since he woke up, Sanders looks around.

The similarities the room shares with the _Nemesis_' Med Bay are eery, but they're not the reason he tenses.

There's someone else, still unmoving on the table-bed by his own and with his eyes black, but he knows he's alive.

And he _recognizes_ him.

Without a word, he stands up and approaches, studying the unconscious robot, and the other two fall silent.

No, not robot.

_Human_.

He feels the curiosity, confusion and wariness even before any question is asked, which is why he points at the first clue.

"Those are Tetrajet wings." He explains, and hears the others come closer. "And these are cannons."

There are fingers coming from the opening of the arm he points to next, but there's no discussion about what they are.

And so, he turns to the other clues—the arcs on the hips that would be where the dock latches onto the Tetrajet, and the structures on the shoulders that, closed, would conform a cockpit—and tries not to look at the face as he pushes away the fear growing deep inside.

He's no pilot, he can't distinguish between two Tetrajets unless they have some pretty distinctive markings, but he _knows_ this one.

More because of the man who steers it than the craft itself, which is exactly why he's trying _not to look_.

He still has hope that this… condition is reversible, but if the man he doesn't want the Tetrajet robot to be has also been captured, it means that not only has the Protectodome fallen, but all chances of them going back to what they were have also been lost.

And the one who promised to keep his children safe, even at the cost of his own life, can't do so anymore.

"Those scars are Steve Reeds'."

And the illusion is broken with Smith's words, shattered in thousands of tiny pieces that seem to turn to dust as that sentence finally sinks in, and all hope is lost.

The Protectodome has fallen. His and the Civilian officers' presence are more than enough proof.

That he has no memories of _how_ is not important.

Not right now, and not unless they can tell him what happened to his children.

Seeing how he has the feeling they're alright, even if he can't explain _why_, no, those memories don't matter.

Almost automatically, he takes a chair and sits down next to the bed.

Next to _Steve Reeds_' bed.

The Field and Air Commander has been taken and converted into a robot too.

Though, judging by Fowler's explanation about what Ratchet expected of them, Sanders forces himself to hope the changes are only aesthetic.

He doesn't want to lose his brother in addition to—

Wait.

_Wait_.

Did he just think about Reeds as if they were _family_?

_What the heck?_

_Dexter_ is his brother, not _Steve_.

Why would he—?

_Because he _is_._

There are some events, some circumstances when they helped each other, but… but such certainty can't be born from only those, can it?

… He has the feeling he's missing something, something _big_, something—

Fowler puts an arm around his shoulders and tugs him close, and all thoughts stop.

There's this strange buzzing come from the Civilian Second's chest that is strangely comforting, and immensely distracting.

Not that he hadn't been distracted before.

_When did I grab Steve's hand?_

He doesn't have an answer, but he doesn't release the matte black appendage either.

Instead, he studies the curious tingling sensation from where his forearms are resting against the surface of a wing, and why that makes him feel trusted.

It's… also strangely heart-warming.

So, Sanders lets himself get comfortable against Fowler's shoulder and with the Air Commander's hand in his own, and tries not to think about what is going to happen now.

Besides the Military Second waking up, that is.

Because if Steve _doesn't_ come back, the Communications Officer is going to get to Hell himself to retrieve him, if that is what it takes to get him back.

And then, he's going to make him wish he hadn't worried them thus.

There's a soft purring from where Smith is lying, and the buzzing from the Commander-in-Chief turns even warmer, if such a thing is possible, and Sanders knows.

If he has to fight to get Steve back, he won't fight alone.

* * *

**AN:** Alright, another interlude, with the real chapter up after this one.

I... am not entirely satisfied with it. But I couldn't do anything else, so... Try and enjoy?

**Angel Heart:** I don't know if a story taking a life of its own is wonderful or horrible. On the one hand, it's cool and I can end loving the results more than the original, but, on the other hand, it gets harder to write when it isn't _forcing me to write non-stop_. But, yes, I enjoy those twists... afterwards. By the way, I can barely wait for the day you finally get your stories ready, I would love to read them :)

As for the second part, it kind of wrote itself as if happening after the 'meeting' in the chapter. Meaning, after Optimus, Megatron, Shockwave, Ironhide and Ratchet meet to discuss Prowl still being Fowler, and see Jazz and Soundwave also have the same problem. I don't think Ironhide would be one to stay and look at the monitors, so he walked out to get some fresh air, or time to think, and ended up remembering that with the quotes... and finding the same mechs of the memory minus Jazz in a really similar situation as before. The 'memory' doesn't have a timestamp, because it could have happened anytime after they woke up in Earth, but before the mess with the Quintessons. I won't put that in italics because it would kind of mess the flow, but I will change the AN to explain what it is that really happens, so sorry for the confusion :P

As for your request... well, what do you think? ;)

Thanks for everything and read you later!


	25. Spiral

Tetrajet wings. Tetrajet cannons. Tetrajet body. And he _knows_ those legs are supposed to be a Tetrajet's tail.

They've turned him into a fucking _Tetrajet_.

"Robots, you say?" He asks with a calm he's not feeling, brought out more as a result of the shock still clenching his innards—or whatever mechanical equivalent they are now—almost painfully.

The beating of whatever is now his heart doesn't do more than increase almost imperceptibly, but the pulsing coming from his chest is now obviously faster.

He doesn't know what to make of that, either.

"Yes. A white one with red markings and a black V-shaped crest on its forehead. Said its name was Ratchet, and talked in plural when he referred to… having _helped_ us."

He looks up with what he wants to believe are wide eyes, despite the fact he can't feel them widening.

It's impossible, but he recognizes the creatures sitting by his… table.

The silvery white one with the blue eyes and the V-shaped crest, looking composed yet with those short wings shaking softly. The matte black and white one with the horn-like things and the blue visor that seems to look both at him and the door at the same time. And the dark blue one sitting straight and without a hint of emotion on his face, red visor fixed on him with what no one else would recognize as fear and hope.

Fowler, Smith and Sanders.

"And how am I supposed to know this isn't a dream?"

Instead of answering verbally, the dark blue robot taps the closest wing.

The bolt of pain that makes him jump on his sitting position on the table is more than enough.

Though he also gets some curious readings about air currents and pressure per micron—whatever a micron is—and a lot of data not related to the tap that is purely a result of Tetrajet sensors.

And, as thus, he can make sense of it.

He realizes he could have avoided the tap, since he'd felt the hand coming, and knows he could maneuver around the room blind and deaf as long as his wings—weird, to thing of wings as _his_ instead of _his Tetrajet's—_keep functioning.

He reaches to soothingly rub the tapped area, but stops, his metallic matte black hand hovering over the equally colored surface.

He can see his hand.

But he can also _feel it_, and something inside him alerts him that the sensor nodes are over-sensitized, and that touch wouldn't be a good idea right now.

Freaked out of his mind, Steve lets his hand fall to the surface of the table, feeling and seeing _his_ wings start to shake.

"This… is crazy."

Three other heads nod in agreement.

He looks down at his… _legs_, and wonders if they will be able to hold him upright.

And gets his answer without even meaning to when he jumps to his feet to face the opening door, wings spread wide to hide the other three behind him, and sensor spheres glowing menacingly.

He can't hear it, but he can feel the soft thrumming running up his legs and his cannon-like arms, and, a blink later, there are target-locks on the robot frozen barely inside the threshold.

That… is almost like he was _inside_ a Tetrajet instead of being some robotic version of one.

"Ratchet." Fowler greets calmly, taking a small step to the side so that he can see the newcomer, and Steve feels Smith do so too, while Sanders stays tensely in place.

"Glad to see you all… awake. Ron Fowler, Jazz Smith, John Sanders and Steve Reeds, correct?"

"Yup, that'd be us. I'd say nice to meet you, but I'm not feeling like lying to someone I've just met." The Head of Special Operations answers cockily, but, thanks to the close proximity, the Air Commander can feel the tension and increase in the energy flow to his legs, readying himself for either running away or attacking the robot.

An almost inaudible snort answers Smith, but it doesn't come from the white and red being.

It comes from outside the room.

Wings vibrate with an audible menacing hum as that coming from his cannon-arms increases, and both Civilian officers step back next to Sanders.

"Why don't you come inside and join the chat? I'd hate to blast a hole through the wall just so we could talk face to face." He growls and, after a couple of seconds, another robot enters the room.

Steve's wings jerk all the way to their highest in surprise, but are quickly turned so that their leading edges are pointing forward, still menacing but no longer that big of a target.

For he knows he has weaponry, even if he doesn't know how to use it, and the new robot looks also like a Tetrajet.

Not like him, though. This one has one blue stripe on each wing, from what little he can see, and another on the outside of its 'thighs', and it's slightly bigger and thicker armored, the parted nosecone on the shoulders wider than his own, the chest bulkier and the wings thicker and slightly wider—

And quickly pulled down and pressed further against the blue-marked robot's back, even if they had already been folded when it came in.

"Whoa, calm down. I'm not looking for a fight." It states calmly, hands up in a non-threatening gesture as it huddles a bit into itself, orange-red eyes looking at him pleadingly.

Slowly, he lowers his own wings, letting them fold against his back, and feels the thrumming stop as his sensor spheres dim.

He _knows_ the Tetrajet robot is speaking the truth, even if he doesn't really know how.

"He looks like you." Smith points out, stepping to be at the Air Commander's side. "He looks _just_ like you."

"He doesn't." Steve answers automatically, looking over the tiny differences, disregarding the blue stripes, because that can be just painted on, and trying to remember why they look familiar.

"You're not speaking about the different color." Fowler points out, and Reeds shakes his head in answer, narrowed eyes still looking over the two almost expectant robots.

"Look, I'm not here to cause trouble, I just wanted to see how you were doing. If you want, I can just go away." The black being adds easily, though there's a hint of pain and disappointment in him.

"_Sure_ you will, fly-boy."

"Thundercracker." Smith stiffens at the answer, and Sanders finally steps around to look curiously at the metallic creatures. "Not 'fly-boy'. My designation—my name's Thundercracker."

"'Ratchet' for the medic, and 'Thundercracker' for a flight-capable being." The Communications Officer repeats calmly, though almost vibrating with curiosity. "Interesting names."

"Well, you know how it goes. You can't choose your name, just make the best out of it."

_"'Theodore'? Are you serious?"_

_"What part of 'call me Ted' didn't you understand, Grant?"_

_"'Ted' sounds like a teddy-bear name and 'Theodore' is something out of history _books_. How many years did it take your parents to even _find_ such a name?"_

_"Says '_Sky_'."_

_"Hey! I thought you were on my side, Stevie!"_

_"I stopped being on 'your side' the first time you called me _that_."_

_"But 'Steve' is a _boring_ name."_

_"I'd rather have a boring name than a _fool's_ name!"_

_"Maybe we should call you 'Explosive' instead of 'Stevie'."_

_"Why, you—!"_

_"Reeds, calm down. And Grant, stop messing with the rookie. Besides, you know how it goes. You can't choose your name, just make the best out of it."_

_"Oh, yeah? And what is the _best_ you can make out of 'Ted'?"_

_"The fact that you will all sound like toddlers scared of 'the monster under the bed' each time you have to call for my help, my dear _subordinates_."_

_"Hey! Being wingleader doesn't mean you can treat us like kids!"_

_"No, but have you forgotten that I'm older than both of you?"_

_"Well, then I guess that explains why you're called 'Theodore'. That name must have been top trend when you were born."_

_"Do you know how childish you sounded right now?"_

_"I guess for an old geezer like _you_, everyone must sound childish."_

_"Oh, for the love of…"_

_"Commander Sanders? Are you sure these are supposed to be my wingmates? Because I'm starting to think I'd rather go back to basic training."_

_"See? You scared the rookie, old-timer."_

_"I wasn't the one who took a picture with strangers after entering the room."_

_"Oh, _please_, as if you are a stranger. We've been around each other ever since I joined!"_

_"You called me 'Baxter'."_

_"_… _Isn't that your name?"_

_"It's _Carter_!"_

_"Psche, almost the same. Right, Stevie?"_

_"Basic. _Now_."_

Orange-red eyes turn darker in worry as the Tetrajet robot's lips move, but the words he hears aren't those being said.

_"Get away from my Trine Leader!"_

"Ted?"

The blue-marked being stiffens, eyes brightening in surprise and doubt and fear—and recognition.

And he knows the other knows the Air Commander knows the robot knows.

And thus, the tension vanishes, leaving him looking defeated.

"Once upon a time, I was called that."

The other three human-turned-robots stiffen, finally making the connection too.

"Thundercracker, what are you—"

"They deserve to know the truth." The Tetrajet-like being cuts Ratchet, straightening in a show of a strength and confidence he lacks. "This is going to sound bizarre to you, but please, let me explain." The four of them exchange some confused and expectant looks and, after some seconds of deliberation without words, turn to the robots and nod. "We are an alien race that was created by another, called the Quintessons, to be their slaves. But we rebelled and broke free. For uncountable time, so long that we even forgot about the Quintessons, we lived and grew and… and even managed to start wars among ourselves. And then, the Quintessons came back and enslaved us once more. Only, this time, they did it on Earth, and the humans were caught up in our mess." He falls silent at that, looking away with eyes flickering as he remembers. "They reprogrammed us to make us think we were human and… decided to use you too." A matte black hand gestures vaguely towards the four tense bodies, but he doesn't look up. "They turned you into what you are now, and made us all believe we were under siege so that we would protect their energy draining operation."

"The geothermal plants…" Fowler whispers almost inaudibly, but the Tetrajet robot nods.

"They fed the Protectodome, sure, but there was enough extra energy produced to send to their home world. Along other resources. Thing is, the Black Beasts were those of us and the humans they hadn't managed to capture, and who were trying to free the rest of us." And, finally, orange-red eyes look back into Steve's. "When they shot me down, they used a scrambler, a sedative for us, and got rid of all the fake data the Quintessons had installed in me. And then, I joined them to try and help all of you. We got you back, in the end, but we still don't know how to reverse what they've done to you."

"And we won't stop trying until we do." Ratchet adds, arms crossed against his chest in a firm and unbending stance that reminds Reeds of—

"Shepherd."

The white robot only nods.

"They really got _all_ of us then." Fowler whispers, still slightly stunned.

Steve feels something hover over one wing and turns his head around, finding a confused Sanders staring expectantly back at him.

"I believe them." He answers simply, and, after a second and the Commander-in-Chief's echoing of his own words, both him and Smith nod.

Trying to hide the distress the Air Commander can feel racking his body, the Communications Officer steps forward.

"Then… my children? Freddy and Allan?"

The robots look at each other with worry and indecision in darkened eyes, but, after what seems like a silent conversation, they nod and turn to them.

"They're all fine. All five of them." Ratchet answers, and Steve has to grab an arm when his fellow Military officer sags with relief. "But… they're not like you. They're of ours. All of them."

Sanders doesn't tense like the Enforcers, his straighter stance being a result of determination, so the Air Commander releases his hold on his arm.

"I don't care. They're my children. I want to see them."

"Sure, no problem."

"Absolutely not!"

Silence.

And then, the two robots glare at each other.

"_What_?!"

"Ratchet, you can't keep them isolated. Let the Cassettes come, or let them go to the Rec Room."

"You can't be _serious_! They're not ready for any of that, they've just been told about the mess we've been in!"

"Do you really think you can keep a creator away from his creations?"

And they fall silent once again, their glares not lessening.

"I already did more than I should have letting you come here, and now you want to get the whole base—"

"Not the whole base, only those five—"

"And don't you think the rest of them wouldn't want to come too if they knew I allowed _this_?! I let you be here because of the chance of the bond sparking something, not because they were cleared for visitors!"

And Thundercracker lets out a humming sound be heard just before answering in a language they can't understand.

Ratchet looks stunned for a second, but shouts something back in the same way, though he's once more silenced by whatever the Tetrajet robot says back.

And then, darkened blue eyes look away.

"Very well then. But make sure the Rec Room is cleared. I don't want any incidents caused by impulsive mechs." The blue-marked creature nods and goes away. "I'll let you go meet with some people, but only after I've checked you." He adds, turning to the four of them, with a seriousness they all know too well.

_That's my decision, and it's final. _No one_ gets away from it._

They try to relax when all he does is scan them, sometimes poking a joint or tapping some plates, but fortunately—or knowingly—staying away from silvery white and matte black wings, Smith's horns and Sanders' chest.

After testing reflexes—_alright, this is pretty simple, I throw the ball and you catch it before it slams into your faceplate, and stop giving me that look or I'll throw a _wrench_ instead—_, equilibrium—_walk in a straight line, from this wall to the other, optics offline, and don't look at me like that, I _know_ there are berths in the way, just avoid them—_and sight—_what color is this? How many pads are on the table? Good, now close your eyes while I change things and turn off the light, and we'll do it again, and no peeking!_—they are finally allowed out of the Med Bay.

The corridors are wide and tall, and so much like Civilian Government Building's that the Enforcers need to be given a couple of shoves before they finally start walking on their own.

They're also empty.

The medic walks in the front, guiding them to the Rec Room, as they look around curiously. Despite the structural resemblance to the Civilian Government Building, the lack of decorations and overall spartan looks are more like the _Nemesis_.

The whooshing sound of a door opening alerts them of their arrival to their destination, with Ratchet gesturing for them to go inside being the last clue.

So, slowly and cautiously, Steve steps into the even larger room, wings up and twitching once he sees how many robots are in it.

Granted, eight of them aren't even Smith's size, who is the smallest of the four, but two others, one red and blue and the other black, purple and silver, helping Thundercracker keep another Tetrajet-like being from trying to run away, are bigger than the Air Commander, and there's an even taller and bulkier one standing not too far from them.

Both happy and wary looks fall on him, but none of them are menacing.

So, he takes a couple more steps further inside, even if he doesn't relax his tense stance nor stop the thrumming reverberating in his arms and legs, and lets the others get in.

Sanders barely has the time to get more than three steps into the room before two of the smallest robots slam into him, embracing him tightly.

Shaking wings relax when Steve realizes they look the same.

And when he hears the names slipping past the Communications Officer's lips as he hugs them back.

Freddy and Allan.

"—me go, he hasn't seen me yet! Please, I can't go through this again, I don't wanna—" Finally noticing the whimpering pleading, the Air Commander turns to look at the Tetrajet robot being kept from running away by Thundercracker's and the two bigger ones' grip.

He's also matte black, though has one purple stripe on each wing and his eyes are glowing a scared pink.

The nosecone is wider than Steve's though also flatter, the wings themselves are thinner than the blue-marked ones, though more or less the same length, and the chest is slightly more protruding than the Air Commander's, something that, in a real Tetrajet, would reflect in a 'plump' belly.

The result of a survival modification.

And since Thundercracker is supposed to be Ted…

"Grant?"

The squirming purple-marked robot freezes.

And, slowly, turns around so that hopeful yet scared pale red eyes meet his own.

"Skywarp." Steve tilts his head curiously, waiting a second before the still paralyzed Tetrajet robot explains. "My designation. It's not Grant, it's… Skywarp."

He can hear the soft clinking of plating as a shiver wracks his body, as well as the pained and betrayed expression that manages to flash on his face before he reigns in on his heartbreak.

He's one of theirs.

Of the robots'.

_"Got you!"_

_"You're ours now."_

He hears his pained gasp as if from far away, both hands quickly clutching his head with enough strength to have his clawed fingers puncture the metal it is now, as he curls into himself, two pairs of hands grabbing his arms to avoid him falling to the floor.

"Reeds!"

"Let me see—"

"Get _away_!"

"I'm fine." His voice still sounds far away, but as he clears his throat and feels the sharp and unexpected stab of pain recede, it grows stronger. "I'm fine." He repeats, straightening after a couple of deep breaths and letting his hands fall to his sides.

Fowler gives him a searching look as he winces at the pinpricks of pain—itching more than hurting—from his head, and the weird _buzzing_ coming from his chest, but lets him go.

Without looking away from Ratchet, visor a dark blue with clearer lines and spots, Smith also takes his hands off of him when he doesn't immediately keel over.

Sanders, clutching the confused twins closer, looks at him with worry and unspoken questions, but he doesn't answer.

He needs to piece things together first.

Which includes…

"Who am I?" All eyes fall on him, some incredulous, some hopeful, but he's looking at the confused and curious of Thundercracker. "To you, who am I?"

Realization makes orange-red flash a paler, almost yellowish tone, before settling for a darker, somehow mournful shade of red.

"Starscream." And then, all eyes are on the blue-marked Tetrajet robot. "Why do you ask?"

"Because Fowler said Ratchet had called us names that weren't ours… and because I heard something when you fell." This time, the surprised yellowish tone stays in the eyes he's still looking intently into. "Comms were out, but something—someone—said 'you're ours now'."

"And you heard it?" The black robot with silver and purple detailing asks with disbelief, and he barely spares him a glance as he recognizes the voice.

He may sound like Commander Lester Storm, but he knows he's not.

He's starting to think there are only the four of them who are still 'stuck' in their predicament.

"Got you. You're ours now." He repeats, feeling his wings twitch and his body shiver, despite containing his fear as best as he can, focusing on the memory of his first encounter with an Aerial after he recovered. "Two different voices I hadn't heard before."

"Ramjet. And Thrust." Thundercracker's eyes flash with something that looks like a mix of ire and thankfulness. "Ramjet was the one to impact, and his Trine immediately framed you, but only Thrust would boast like that."

And it means nothing to him, but judging by the rest of the robots' expressions, it explains a lot to them.

"I also heard you." And surprise and astonishment return almost tenfold, though he doesn't react despite starting to feel self-conscious. "Get away from my Trine Leader."

Before he can react there's a black blur in front of him and his arms are pinned to his sides and there's something wrapped around his torso and applying increasing pressure and _there's red on his tail but it wasn't there less than a second before and he's shaking in fear and pain as he flies out of its range—and it's suddenly in front of him—_

"_Skywarp_!"

There's fear and horror in the voice and the pressure around his torso increases but he doesn't care, he can't use his cannons but he can do _this—_

The shriek is loud and painful so close to his ears, and the tug as his captor throws itself away from him sends a sharp pain through his wings as the razor-sharp gliding flaps imbedded in the thing's shoulders are harshly pulled out, covered in a sticky and tingly pinkish substance, but he finally has his arms free—

The charge that has been building disperses as soon as he puts the now hand-less nozzles against matte black armor, but he's been too late, his target has once more popped out of his screen _to appear suddenly behind Shawn's signal, but one of the Ground Cybertronian is close enough to help his brother, and the red dot vanishes—only to suddenly appear tailing the Air Commander again, and he can't shake it, can't shake _them—

So he charges his weapons again and locks onto the signatures, seemingly frozen in place—

He feels it move at his back, tackling him, and he whirls around, but he's too late, the new Black Beast is too close to shoot, he needs to pull back—

His engines die almost as soon as he's engaged them when something pierces his throat, a numbing feeling taking hold of his body and why is he seeing the shut down codes for his Cybertronian as if they were printed on his—?

* * *

**AN:** Aaaaaand... That's chapter 22. I hope your questions were answered.

Now, some news. The good one is that I've found a job. The bad one is that I don't think I'll have the time to update my fics regularly. I will try, mostly because writing is relaxing, but I can't promise anything.

The other good news, after all this has been said and done, is that chapter 23 is half done, so, unless something happens, I'll have it ready to post next weekend.

Enjoy!


	26. The Last Straw

Starscream's body falls to the ground limply, optics black and charge dying along the color of his sensor spheres, but Skyfire quickly turns his attention back to Skywarp when he sees the empty needle protruding from the main Energon line in his friend's neck.

The other Seeker is more important now, for his Energon lines haven't been pierced, but _slashed_.

Slag it all, who knew gliding flaps could be used as _blades_?

When Ratchet pushes the Shuttle off the smaller Flier, Skyfire risks a look at the Cybertronian still trapped in the Quintessons' illusion.

Frenzy and Rumble are frantically trying to calm down the three active mechs kneeling next to the sprawled Air Commander, Energon still covering and dripping from the gliding flaps of his extended wings.

Skywarp's reaction was exaggerated, yes. Throwing himself onto Starscream while the Seeker remembered a battlefield _and_ didn't recognize any of them was foolish, but pinning his arms to his sides was plainly _asking for trouble_.

And trouble he found, when the panicked mech tried to free himself.

Though Skyfire's first thought when the matte black wings flared wide open and hitched to their highest was that it was a menacing display.

Not an attack.

Thundercracker knew, that's why he cried his Trinemate's designation, but none of them was fast enough to stop Starscream when the gliding flaps extended—

And the wings plunged downwards with enough strength to cut through cabling and struts and Energon lines with no apparent difficulty, using that small and practically sealed seam between the shoulder plates and the chest-neck plating.

Skywarp's shriek and his harsh movement backwards, away from his Trine leader, would have snapped Skyfire into action, but the arc of Energon between the two Seekers and the charged cannons that the arms had become, no sign of the servos, suddenly against the purple-marked Flier's chest plates stopped all his gears.

Fortunately, the Decepticon teleported away to his blue-striped Trinemate's side, and then they were too busy avoiding the shots for the Shuttle to remain frozen in place.

When bright red—molten metal red—optics with the tell-tale paler spots and bands signaling the active targeting systems locked on them, Ratchet jumped onto the Air Commander, and pushed a needle filled with a clear liquid into his neck.

The matte black mech collapsed as if forcibly shut down, and the scientist rushed to Skywarp's side, pulling plating off of him to reveal the broken lines in an effort to seal them and avoid further loss of Energon.

But now that Ratchet's taken over—cursing and berating the grimacing Seeker leaning against his worried Trinemate—the Shuttle can turn his attention once more to his forced into stasis friend and the other three fake personae.

"—**only a sedative.**" Frenzy explains calmly, talking in Cybertronian so that they can understand him, while taking the needle out of Starscream's Energon line. "**That was his battle programming activating, and we couldn't have him deactivati—er, **_**killing**_** people, could we?**"

"**Looked to me like he was acting in self-defense.**" Prowl answers back, voice chilling cold and optics a pale ice blue glaring into the nervous Cassette.

"**Skywarp's an idiot. That was supposed to be a hug, but he can't take things slowly even if it means his deactivation.**" Rumble scoffs, keeping a hand on his creator's shoulder plates as the dark blue mech kneels next to the Seeker. "**Which it **_**will**_**, sooner or later.**"

"**Sooner, unless he learns to use his processor instead of having it just run through prank plans.**"

"**Aw, but you like my pranks.**" The purple-marked Flier pouts at Frenzy's words, voice loud enough to carry to the other group, though quickly followed by a yelp as Thundercracker slaps the back of his helm with a scowl.

"Skyfire." Slightly surprised at the use of English, the Shuttle nevertheless turns to the medic at his designation. "I've sealed all lines, but I need him in the Repair Bay to deal with the cables and struts. Can you carry him, _carefully_?"

"Yes, of course. But what about…" A quick glance at the suspicious looking processor-trapped mechs is more than enough to finish his sentence, and Ratchet's engine growls softly.

"I knew we shouldn't have let them out. Commander Megatron will carry Starscream, and you have to take Skywarp because you're the only one capable of not jostling him too much." The scientist nods in answer and, carefully, picks the injured Seeker up. "Everyone get out _now_. The only ones coming to the Repair Bay are Skyfire, Megatron and Optimus. And Thundercracker. I need you to herd our _humans_." Blaster and the Cassettes exchange wavering and saddened looks, but finally nod and step out of the closest door, with Frenzy and Rumble following after a last hug with Soundwave.

Slowly, almost warily, the two Decepticons approach the tense reprogrammed mechs, the Seeker with an almost mournful look on his faceplates.

No one has said 'I told you so', but Thundercracker is punishing himself enough on his own.

"**We need to get back to the Med Bay. Commander Megatron will carry Reeds.**" The Flier explains calmly, voice eerily soft and low, as if in physical pain himself, but none of the other three move.

Except for Jazz.

The Head of Special Operations calmly stands in front of his companions, servos resting on his pelvic plating innocently, but blue visor darkened and with the tell-tale paler dots and lines of his own targeting system.

He carries no visible weapons, he _shouldn't_ have any installed, what with him being a 'civilian model', but Skyfire remembers an unexpected encounter with a pale skinned brown-haired man wearing green contact lenses, and knows the small, almost _tiny_ in comparison to the Decepticon leader, mech doesn't need weapons to deactivate some-mech.

Or make them _suffer_.

His serious expression is more than enough warning.

"**And if we refuse?**" Soundwave asks almost calmly, still next to the downed Seeker and with a servo resting on a cannon-arm, but the two Decepticons don't look away from the saboteur.

"**Going to the Med Bay or one of us carrying him?**" Megatron returns with a patience his tense frame doesn't show, also aware of how much harm the deceivingly harmless mech in front of him can do.

"**Both.**"

Prowl's doorwings fan menacingly when Optimus steps towards them, but Skyfire's busy following Ratchet out, Skywarp still in his arms, to hear what the Autobot leader answers.

The door closes, but the Shuttle doesn't relax, and neither do medic nor patient.

"I slagged it all big time, didn't I?" The Seeker whispers, optics dark and helm resting against the scientist's upper arm plating as if his neck-struts don't have the strength to hold it up anymore.

"Sooner or later, someone would have." The smaller Autobot answers gruffly, though without the harshness he tends to use on patients that got themselves sent to Repair Bay because of their, or their actions', stupidity.

"But it was me. It's always me."

"If you couldn't teleport, it would have been me." Skywarp twitches a bit before looking at the Shuttle expectantly. "When Starsc—Steve said that about hearing Thrust and Ramjet and Thundercracker, I realized he had been Starscream all along and… I guess I hoped he still was. I was about to walk up to him, maybe even embrace him too, but you can't race a teleporter." To his relief, the Seeker snorts with a proud smirk.

"Slagging right you can't. Only Screamer could have a chance against—" And, feeling as if living through a deja vu, the Decepticon's smile vanishes as he falls silent, mournfully huddling into himself as much as his position in the scientist's arms and his injuries allow him.

"He was spark-broken when he lost you." Skyfire whispers softly, folding his wing partitions back as they enter the Repair Bay. "Commander Storm—I mean, Megatron—he put him and Soundwave in medical leave, because your loss, and the twins', hit them too hard for them to keep working."

"What?" The black mech whispers, not even wincing as he's carefully put on a table.

"He showed me some pictures of your 'meeting'. The one you took when you first met." And Skywarp smiles once more, a gesture far smaller and more sincere than any of his usual big grins. "And told me of your first flight, and about the High Grade—" The Seeker barks in laughter, shaking a bit in mirth, as Ratchet fetches his tools. "And then he realized you were gone and… cried."

Silence.

"He… what?"

"He cried. For you, and Thundercracker. For his _family_."

Ratchet pushes him out of the room, but Skyfire manages to see Skywarp's optics flicker sadly with a small hopeful smile on his faceplate.

* * *

Motormaster just gives First Aid a nod before helping Breakdown down the berth and walking out the room.

The leg was reattached, but it needs to be integrated by the Stunticon's systems, which means it'll be some time before the shy mech can walk without a limp and be allowed to transform, something that also applies to Drag Strip.

None of his gestalt-mates complain about the check ups, nor about Motormaster being there.

Today, the competitive F1 car hasn't joined them because he was checked in the morning, after a stunt with one of the Autobot twins knocked him down on his integrating arm, so only Breakdown and the gestalt leader themselves have come, the other three staying in the Rec Room and trying to come to terms with all the new things of this time one hundred years in the future they've been shoved into.

And the fact they're living with squishies.

Not that the meat bags are around all that much, at least not in the areas the Stunticons are allowed to freely roam, but it's still weird to walk down a corridor and receive a respectful nod from every human they cross, instead of having them run away shrieking in fear.

It's almost scary, how some of them even try to make small talk.

But Megatron has given orders not to flatten them and to be polite—_the first I hear insulting the meat bags to their faces will be playing tour guide for them with their voice box torn out and their transformation cog blocked, understood?_—, so they just nod and excuse themselves every time such a thing happens.

Even creepier, though, is that there are some of them, not just Autobots, but Decepticons too, that are perfectly at ease around them, like Scrapper, Scavenger, Long Haul, Blitzwing…

Not all are confused by the new point of view regarding humans, but not everybot is perfectly content around them either. Thundercracker, Skywarp and the Cassette twins, per example, tolerate them, but aren't all that friendly to the squishies.

But, despite being as uncomfortable around them as the next mech, Megatron has ordered them not to damage the meat bags, so Motormaster obeys, and so does his gestalt.

Dealing with Autobots is even worse than seeing squishies walk around calmly, made even worse because some of them act as if they were never at war to begin with.

Shockwave told them that it is because some of them have been around since the creation of the truce, while others remember interacting with them in the Protectodome, and, as thus, don't recognize them as enemies anymore.

The only Protectodome Motormaster remembers is the broken into dome that covered the sky when they managed to get out of the underground facilities of the Quintessons.

Apparently, Menasor made an appearance once, almost at the beginning of the Invasion slash Capture Operation, on the Quintessons' side, but none of the Stunticons remember it.

Since all Decepticons that remember such an event said the Combiner was more 'docile' under Megatron's command, the gestalt decided it was a complete and utter failure, and that's the reason they were brought underground to be worked on.

Not that they prefer to remember _that_.

Lost in his musings as he is, Motormaster would have slammed into the black frame as he entered the main area of the Repair Bay, but the tension in the room quickly brings him back to the present.

So, he finds himself barely out of the threshold of the corridor to the individual rooms, with Breakdown timidly peeking out from behind him, and staring at Megatron's straight and stiff back plating.

A quick reboot of his optics later, he's looking into annoyed dark red.

"**Are you planning on standing there all orn long?**" Startled by his leader using Cybertronian to address him, since they've been speaking English so as to not _disrespect_ the fleshies, Motormaster can only reboot his optics again before doing a quick swipe of the room.

Optimus Prime and Ratchet are there, the first standing next to the Decepticon and the second working on a winged matte black mech on a berth, but they're not the only ones inside.

Three others are standing opposite the faction leaders, though as close to the occupied berth as they can without disturbing the medic. And all them, plus the one being repaired, are quite well known to the Stunticons that dug them out of the rubble.

"**I didn't know they were active.**" He muses out loud, and two visors, one red and one blue, look him over with suspicion while blue optics analyze him calculatingly.

He can feel his plating tingle with the discomfort of being examined and categorized, but refrains from even the smallest movement.

That doesn't feel right.

"**Motormaster, Breakdown, these are Ron Fowler, Jazz Smith and John Sanders, and the one on the berth is Steve Reeds.**"

Stunned, both Stunticons turn to stare at the Prime.

"**Did the Quintessons corrupt your databanks?**" The gestalt leader asks skeptically, a klik away from activating his targeting systems, without taking his gaze from the red and blue mech.

He's _not_ taking any chances with an injured brother present.

"**They are still suffering the effects of the Quintessons' modifications. We're looking for a way to get them back to what they should be.**" Megatron answers, an order in his voice for the two Stunticons to stay silent.

"**The question is, who are you trying to get us be?**" All optics turn to the Praxian at those words, Doorwings spread wide almost menacingly. "**Prowl and Starscream, or Fowler and Reeds?**"

Both Autobot and Decepticon leaders exchange a look as the medic stops whatever he's doing to the black frame.

"**Prowl and Starscream, of course. And Soundwave and whoever you're supposed to be, saboteur.**" Motormaster answers instead, gesturing to the black and white mech when he doesn't find his designation in his databanks.

"**Jazz, I think.**" Breakdown answers at his back, and the gestalt leader nods.

"**Yeah, that.**"

"**There are no 'ours' nor 'yours', is there?**" Soundwave whispers, looking down at his servos before clenching them tightly. "**We're all supposed to be the same.**"

"**We are.**" The Prime finally answers tiredly, and the visor that looks up at him is a pale pink in what Motormaster recognizes as ire.

Following deeply ingrained survival codes, both Stunticons step away and look down, trying for obedient and harmless.

"**Then, someone has done something to us. Either those so called 'Quintessons' made us think we are what we now are, or **_**you**_** have done it.**" The gestalt leader feels the tension and shock fill the room at the Communications Officer's words, but he doesn't look up.

Instead, he takes a smaller step back, pushing Breakdown further from their Supreme Commander and closer to the corridor they've come through.

Just in case.

"_**We**_** have done it? Why would we—?**"

"**To keep us contained? Controlled? Working for **_**you**_**? Oh, don't look so horrified, we **_**do**_** trust your words.**" Motormaster chances looking up, but quickly returns his optics to the floor at the deadly smirk on the Praxian's faceplate. "**We believe you were the Black Beasts all along. And that you're trying to change us into these 'Starscream', 'Prowl' and the rest. As for whether they already existed **_**before**_** you took us from the Protectodome and got us this bodies…**"

Both Stunticons shudder, not needing to see the speaking mech to hear and _feel_ the rage ravaging his body, along that of the other two active ones.

"**Enough of this slag!**" The sound of a heavy step goes almost unnoticed after the bellow—

But the crash of a thickly armored frame being slammed into the ground is impossible to overlook.

Before he knows what he's doing, Motormaster is once more looking up.

And, this time, he's unable to turn away, despite the terrifying and shocking scene.

Megatron is on the ground, lying on his front, with the comparatively small black and white saboteur hunched down on his back, keeping one powerful silver and purple detailed black arm immobile by pressing it between one pede and the larger mech's own back struts, while the other is… disabled by the medical scalpel buried in the joint.

Effortlessly, the Autobot pulls the tool out to press it against the main Energon line on the neck.

The Stunticon leader knows he should have reacted, jumped to defend his leader, but he can't even make the smallest of gears twitch.

The Head of Special Operations isn't smiling.

Back when Autobots and Decepticons were at war, when no one had heard about Quintessons, or, at least, didn't know they were their whole race's creators, the black and white TIC was pretty well known by being one of the better—if not _the best—_at what he did, to the point he could act cool and cocky while sabotaging the other party.

Always with a smile on his faceplate.

The broken Quintesson body was a shock, but mostly rage.

The completely serious tiny mech thinking himself a human on the back of the Decepticon leader is a shock, too, but this time caused by horror.

And the Praxian just spreads his doorwings wider and higher, a gesture of superiority and threat, as the one in Soundwave's body analyzes them with an intensity that should have been accompanied by the prickling in his processor that results from it being read, but that it doesn't.

It doesn't make Motormaster calm down.

"**You will tell us everything.**"

It sounds like a statement some-mech would make about the weather, instead of the order it is, and the gestalt leader has to fight not to step away in fear, keeping his optics on the silvery white 'Bot.

Breakdown twitches, and blue optics are suddenly on them.

There are no tell-tale paler spots or lines from target lock, but both Stunticons can feel as if a thousand visual arrays are on them.

With a start, Motormaster realizes the doorwings are angled to face them.

_Is this what the Quintessons have turned him into? And if that is what has become of the Praxian, what about the rest?_

Horrified, the Decepticon steps back, plating tingling with shivers as he looks away and huddles into himself, trying to appear smaller and obedient and non-threatening and knowing he's not suceeding, because those he wants to appease don't understand Cybertronian communication despite speaking only their language.

"**Starscream was the Second in Command, and the Air Commander. He was a Seeker, a Flier frame type, and obnoxious and treacherous and always ready to do anything to get what he wanted. Soundwave was the Third in Command and Communications Officer. He was a Cassette Carrier, always silent, and spoke in a monotone and almost computer-like sentences, and was also a telepath and would use any information on you to get the upper hand. They were both Decepticons. Prowl and Jazz were the Second and Third of the Autobots. One was a tactician, and the other the Head of Spec Ops. Prowl was always serious, and Jazz always cheerful, but they were the best at what they did.**" And Motormaster falls silent, not knowing when he started talking, but too scared by still being targeted by what feels like the full sensory power of the Praxian.

The sensation vanishes so suddenly that the Stunticon leader almost misses the pained static burst.

Almost.

Again acting without confirmation from his conscious motor controls, the Decepticon finds himself looking up once more.

Soundwave falls to his knees, writhing in pain, while the Doorwinger quickly kneels by his side.

The saboteur doesn't move, still threatening Megatron with the scalpel, but his visor is now slightly tilted upwards, and there are paler spots and lines of his targeting systems on it.

The sensation has lessened, but is not more pleasant than when he had the Praxian's attention.

So, Motormaster stays still, letting Breakdown step closer to his leader and watching the Prime panic and the medic despair as neither of them is willing to risk the Supreme Commander's function by moving.

Until tendrils of white lightning arc over the Cassette Carrier's helm, his keening dissolving into creaking static.

The Doorwinger doesn't move away, but neither him nor the saboteur stop the red-accented white mech when he kneels next to his patient.

The medic injects the Communications Officer with something and, in barely a couple of kliks, Soundwave falls into stasis.

"**He overwhelmed himself by forcing his processor. I know you want to know the truth, but pushing you to the point you overcharge, and possibly **_**damage**_**, yourselves is **_**not the solution**_**.**" And it isn't until those last three words that the growling and menacing tone the Autobot Chief Medical Officer is known for makes an appearance.

"**So what would you suggest, doctor?**" The Doorwinger asks calmly, and the saboteur steps off the Decepticon leader as if he's nothing more than the last step of the staircase.

"**Reviewing memory files of those who knew Starscream, Soundwave, Prowl and Jazz.**"

There are many things that have gone wrong today, but nothing is worse than the nod the Autobot SIC and TIC give as answer.

* * *

**AN:** Hi there, everybody! Would you look at this? I managed to get the next chapter up :D I'm so proud of myself...

And the next one is coming along nicely, too. It's practically writing itself on its own! So, if nothing happens, next weekend there will be another update, right on schedule.

If not, wait for it the following weekend. I've decided that no matter when I complete the chapter, I'll be posting it on Friday/Saturday/Sunday, so that you know when to look for it.

Lets hope I can keep this up, though.

**Angel Heart:** I'm glad you enjoyed the interactions between the characters, I can't help but think Soundwave and his Cassettes are mostly background, in that chapter, which is something I strongly dislike.

I'm glad you liked how the chapter went, I wasn't so sure about the end, but... I couldn't fight Screamer nor his memories T.T

Yup, a job is the perfect reson. More so because I actually enjoy it, and it doesn't seem to get in the way of my writing, for now. Enjoy your vacation, and don't worry about new chapters, they'll be waiting for you when you come back ;)


	27. Clicking in Place

**AN:** Short note to let you know all speech happens in Cybertronian, thus there won't be text in bold to distinguish between languages.

* * *

If Optimus thought the situation was awkward before, he now realizes he was wrong.

'Awkward' wasn't having a Shuttle, two Seekers, a Doorwinger, an Autobot spy, a whole gestalt and five Cassettes in a room with him, Megatron, Shockwave and Ironhide.

'Awkward' is what happens when he tells them what they are going to do.

"Excuse me, but I think I have misunderstood. You can't have said we're going to show Starscream, Soundwave, Prowl and Jazz who they were before the Quintesson invasion." Thundercracker, still standing protectively next to his recently repaired trinemate, repeats with wariness.

Fortunately for the Prime, Megatron is the one who nods.

"That's precisely what we said."

"I thought we were supposed to give them time so that they could sort through their memories on their own?" Mirage asks more calmly while the rest try to get over their surprise.

The spy has changed, as have all the others, though his modifications aren't Quintessonian in origin.

After all these years of constant siege and battles, improvements were needed as their enemies brought about more powerful and faster weapons, some of them in the form of their captured comrades, so Shockwave, as main scientist of the Resistance, devised some of his own alongside First Aid and the Constructicons that hadn't been taken, which is why every single mech is different than a vorn and a half ago.

Mirage, in particular, doesn't seem too different from his own original Cybertronian frame, keeping the stylized form, almost Seeker-like, and the short panels on the back of his shoulder plates, similar to small doorwings, though without mobility, that are his frontal anti-gravs when in alt mode.

Sure, his helm vents are smaller, and the armor plates covering his upper arms and shins are longer, protecting also the elbow and knee joints, and the blue and white color scheme is still the same, but that's because the main changes aren't outside, but inside.

On Mirage's cloaking device, mostly.

His invisibility field is now thrice as large as before the invasion, able to cover two more mechs and whoever the three of them may carry, and also includes a signal disruptor.

These changes are what allowed the 'Black Beasts' to recover the fallen Cybertronian, since Mirage would slip into the battlefield along two more and bring them out of the Protectodome's scans, to the Resistance base, to be cleansed of Quintesson programming.

Or, in the case of the drones, to be reprogrammed by Shockwave and used against their creators.

In a way, Shockwave and Mirage are the real saviors, one because of the modifications, and the other thanks to his Ability.

To Optimus' surprise, though, the noblemech refused any kind of commendation once he was made aware of what the spy's role in the siege had been.

In fact, Mirage sees himself more as a failure than a hero, since he 'failed those we needed most'.

The Prime doesn't need to ask who 'those' are.

"There has been a problem with the memory sorting. The Quintessons implemented changes we weren't aware of, and their recovery has been put on hold due to their inability to recognize the fake data and access their own memories." Shockwave answers calmly, and the Seekers, Shuttle and Cassettes shiver as they remember their short meeting in the Rec Room.

"And you think us showing them some of their past will help? Because I really want to help, Prowl has also helped me, and Jazz has always been nice, even when we didn't know who we were, and I can't find a way to say thank you, because they always say it's nothing, so I—"

"Hey, ease on the babbling, Autobot." Skywarp interrupts, and Bluestreak gives him a soft glare in answer. "We all want to help. No matter how annoying Screamer usually is, he's _our_ annoying Screamer, so no slagging way are we letting those Quinta-creeps keep him." He adds, stronger, wings vibrating against his back, and firm nods answer from all around the room.

"Lets do it!"

"Yeah, we want Soundwave back too!"

"Even the 'Bots!"

"By the way, what are _you_ doing here?"

All optics and visors turn to the Combaticons, standing as determined as the rest, at Laserbeak's question.

"We want to help too." Brawl scoffs, putting strong servos on his pelvic plates.

As all those last 'rescued' from the Protectodome, he's matte black, his original color scheme not going to show up again until self repair rewrites the coding of all color nanites, something that seems like a never-ending task, but that the Quintessons, somehow, managed.

It can be a directed effort, with the help of Shockwave and First Aid, as it was for Starscream's trinemates, who now sport the untarnished colored stripes on their wings and, in Thundercracker's case, thighs, but it doesn't make it less lengthy, which is why Skywarp has less colored areas than the other Seeker.

Fortunately, the 'civilian' Cybertronian didn't suffer such… _standardized_ looks.

The Military look exactly like the drones, which is why it took the Resistance a while to start 'recovering' them, until Shockwave managed to put together a long range spark scanner to distinguish between the real mechs and the robots, and got Mirage's cloaking device ready.

But he did it, and so here they are.

As a Military Cybertronian, Brawl has been given thicker plating, despite his own already being tough, and a lot more weapons. Mainly on his forearms, that collapse onto themselves to form part of Bruticus' struts, as do the treads arcing over his shoulder plates.

The rest of his gestalt-mates are equally changed, with all of them showing thick chest armor, and with Blast Off sporting enormous engines on his shoulders, Swindle with incredibly big circular anti-gravs on shoulder plates and lower legs, and Vortex's rotors resting against his back like the Seekers' wings.

But they're all as equally determined and Pit-bent on helping with their 'trip down memory lane' as any of the others in the room.

Which, to be sincere, is something Optimus has trouble understanding.

First Aid and Hook are going to be there to monitor their 'patients', and the rest, both leaders and Ironhide included, are to show part of their memories on a screen in the hope some of it helps their recovery.

The Cassettes are here for Soundwave, obviously, as are the Seekers and Skyfire for Starscream, Bluestreak for Prowl, and Ironhide and Mirage for Jazz, while Megatron, Optimus, Ratchet and Shockwave aren't there for any specific individual, but for the two of their faction.

The Combaticons, though? What kind of tie could they share with either Soundwave or Starscream? Or is it both?

And why does Megatron look as confused and skeptical as the Prime himself is feeling?

Still silent, the leader of the Autobots decides to simply observe as his Decepticon counterpart glares at Onslaught, who calmly holds his gaze with his burning visor.

In the end, the silver and purple-accented black mech simply straightens with a slight tilt of his helm towards the door.

The Combaticons are in. They can get going now.

The room they've decided to conduct their little 'experiment' in is another Rec Room, since the Repair Bay would be too small for it, but with as many equipment Ratchet and First Aid have hauled inside, it looks like a bigger version of it.

All of those inside turn to the door as they slowly enter, making sure to step slowly and stay a safe distance away as matte black wings and silvery white doorwings spread in warning, and two visors, one blue and another red, examine them without signs of targeting systems, but with the same intensity as if they were online.

Hook, looking bored and perfectly calm, approaches the group and guides them to some chairs, keeping his visual band on Skywarp all the while, the purple-marked Seeker resting on his trinemate and with Skyfire close by their side.

Once they're in their seats, with the four Quintesson-deluded mechs sitting opposite them, the Constructicon hands each of them a single linkup cable.

"Medical port, and don't try anything. We'll control things from there." He explains simply, pointing to the machine Shockwave is looking over, similar to the sound-tables humans kept on their dancing clubs.

"You asked for it, you have it." Ratchet's voice makes all visual arrays turn to him as the medic takes a seat between both groups, arms crossed against his chest plates, as he nods to the large screen in front of him, closing the square. "Any requests or should we dump everything on you?"

The _again_ goes unsaid, but Thundercracker cringes and huddles a bit in his seat, as if trying to make himself look smaller.

Skywarp glares at the red-marked white Autobot, and Skyfire opens his wings partitions a bit from where he's sitting on the teleporter's other side, so that they are closer to the guilty Seeker in an effort to comfort him.

Ratchet just revs his engine in a snort that lacks enough humor to be called a snarl.

_He brought it on himself._

The next engine growl is Megatron's, so everyone, even the suspicious and tense 'humans' still and try to relax on their seats.

"The Black Day."

Shockwave and Ironhide turn to Jazz so fast that their armor doesn't tinkle.

It _clangs_.

The saboteur simply looks at them seriously, and the Weapons Specialist is the one who looks away first, disturbed.

The Decepticon scientist's reaction is harder to read, but if it is anything like Mirage's, it is one of utter horror and disbelief.

First Aid, despite being as dumbfounded and uneasy as the rest of original Resistance mechs—plus Ironhide—is the one who manages to get his voice box to work.

"Why the Black Day? Any reasons?"

"Curiosity." The black and white mech answers simply, but there's nothing really simple.

The medic and spy turn to Shockwave and Ironhide, who share a look—

And exchange places.

Well, not really.

Ironhide gives Shockwave his linkup cable, and First Aid takes the controls as the Weapons Specialist stays on his pedes next to the Decepticon, almost as if guarding him.

That's a _really_ strange image.

There are a lot of them that Optimus still needs to get used to.

But, for now, what he needs to concentrate on is the screen, which is slowly lighting up to show—

_Jazz?!_

But not the Jazz with them on the room, nor the one Optimus knew before the Invasion.

And yet, he is undeniably Jazz, despite the mostly black color scheme, the sensory horns turned to tilted panes, the sleeker frame…

Though the lack of the confident and cocky smirk is misleading.

"_Have you checked the data?_" Shockwave's voice asks, and the mech onscreen, arms crossed against a less prominent and somehow sharp bumper, nods.

"_Twice after you gave it to me, thrice when it was updated, and twice more half a joor ago._"

The Prime shivers at the voice, easily recognizable as his Third's, yet too dark and eager in a sadistic way.

As if he can't wait to tear some-mech to pieces.

"_And you still intend to follow through._"

"_It was never in question._"

"_You realize it's illogical._"

"_And you know that there's nothing else we can do unless we start retrieving our comrades._"

"_Nevertheless—_"

"_Enough blabbering. I'm going in anyway, so mute it._"

There's silence for some nanokliks then, the mech onscreen not even twitching.

When Shockwave's voice sounds again, Optimus tenses in surprise.

"_There are no certainties those captured are still active._"

And Jazz reacts then, visor turning almost white as his servos clench the arms they are resting on tight enough to dent, and his shoulder plates seem to move away from the struts as they flare intimidatingly while the rest rearrange themselves to better cover his inner workings.

In short, the saboteur is _pissed_.

"_They are. The thing that repelled us last orn was a flying Combiner, and you said yourself that the Quintessons didn't develop Combiner technology. That was Superion, which means the five Fliers that formed him were the Aerialbots. And if _they_ are there, why shouldn't the others?_"

"_The Quintessons can have easily recreated Combiner technology through the teams they captured, as they have done with—_"

"_They have _not_ copied the Abilities, they are using the _mechs_!_" Jazz finally exclaims, his eery seriousness turning to burning ire as he gestures sharply, engine roaring before he calms down a bit. "_That's what they created us for, to do their dirty work, so that's why they'll be using our friends against us._"

"_There's no certainty that, if this thought is accurate, the captured individuals are those previously known._" The saboteur tenses again, but his visor darkens to a calmer tone.

"_Whatever they have done, we can reverse it._" He answers with certainty, not even the smallest hint of doubt in it.

"_Until we manage to confirm this hypothesis, get hold of one of the captured mechs and conduct a thorough examination of them, I suggest not holding to that thought._" Jazz bristles, but doesn't do more than let his engine growl softly. "_As thus, I will bring the long range spark scanner with me to the battlefield, in the off-chance your guilty delusions prove correct._"

"_My _guilty delusions_?!_"

"_You have yet to elaborate a full report of the capture of Second in Command of the Autobots Prowl during the mission orchestrated to retrieve you from the field._"

And the saboteur tenses once more, but quickly looks away with his servos pressed in tight fists.

"_They ambushed us. I got away, he didn't. It's as simple as that._"

The image goes black for less than a nanoklik as Shockwave reboots his optic, but the other mech hasn't moved from his defensive and defeated slight slump.

"_When it affects your rational thought processes and decision making, it is not _simple_._"

The Head of Special Operations chuckles softly, but the sound is so empty, so dark, that it only makes Optimus fear, both for the mech onscreen, despite knowing it's a memory, and, illogically, himself.

He has the feeling this Jazz, the dark and jagged and bent almost to the breaking point Jazz, is going to look up, jump out of the screen, and deactivate them all.

And it won't be slow nor painless.

Fortunately, or not, the mech onscreen doesn't move when his chuckling comes to an end.

"_Why, you are right, aren't you? Perhaps I should see a Medic, but with First Aid so busy repairing those that dealt with the Superion-like being, and Hoist in Cybertron, who should I ask? Oh, perhaps Ratchet or Hook, they're here on Earth, after all… ah, wait. They're inside the dome. Well, I'm going to go in either way, so I'll just make a note about telling them I need a processor evaluation._"

And then he looks up and smiles.

If black holes could see the inhabited planets drifting towards them and had the faceplate for such an action, their smile wouldn't rise so many warning messages and activate as many security protocols as this Jazz's does.

Before Optimus can recover, the onscreen saboteur's expression vanishes, leaving a lost and scared mech in his place, helm tilting so that the visor is no longer fully facing Shockwave.

"_I'll bring them back. I have to. I—I can't keep doing this._"

The Prime has to reboot his optics at the sudden change, and, when the image stays the same, can't help but wonder just what _exactly_ happened to his Third in Command to leave him as unrecognizable as that.

"_You are downplaying yourself, underestimating your efforts. Your performance as leader of the Autobots has been admirable._"

Jazz chuckles again, without humor once more, though this time is just plain sad and spark-broken.

"_Doesn't count. It was _Prowl_ who lead the 'Bots, I… I just try. And fail. I've lost so many…_"

"_And yet, you _are_ Third in Command and Head of Special Operations._" A dark snort and the black helm tilts further away, as if hiding the expression of disgust on the faceplate.

"_Third in Command. _Prowl_ did all the work. _Again_. I just filled some paperwork. And I wasn't so much the _Head_ of Special Operations as the 'mech who teaches cool tricks'._" Jazz looks up, and all the contempt has turned to despair. "_I am _useless_ to the 'Bots, to the _Resistance_. I have always been a solo player, Shockwave. I don't know how much longer I can put this up._"

The silence that follows the softly spoken words as the onscreen saboteur turns to look away with his visor offline is chocking.

Even if the pain, the fear, the worry and hopelessness, are just a memory being played on a screen, Optimus can't help but feel them.

Along guilt.

He left his Autobots alone. He got himself captured and _left them_.

And it broke Jazz.

Though, to what point…

The Prime doesn't look at the Head of Special Operations with them in the room, because he knows he won't see the Jazzmeister, but Jazz Smith.

And as thus, he's unable to see how much he hurt those that depended on him.

The wry smile appearing on the onscreen saboteur quickly catches his attention, pushing away the guilt for an instant so that he can concentrate on what is being shown.

Even if it will only bring more pain.

"_Look at me. Spilling my guts to a 'Con. To _Shockwave_, of all mechs._"

"_You do not have 'guts', nor any way to 'spill them' with your chassis undamaged._" Jazz chuckles, and, for the first time since the memory began, it is with amusement.

"_Human expression, my mech. You'll get them one day._" And then he turns serious, but this time it is with a professionalism that means the Head of Special Operations has taken charge. "_Alright, guts aside, yes, I've reviewed all data pertinent to the mission, yes, I know the risks, and yes, I'll do it. While you bring them out, I'll slip in and try to locate the control room, or whatever, and get rid of the Quintessons, or, in the event that's not feasible, I'll recover the captured mechs._"

"_Regardless of how many times you repeat it, this plan of yours won't become more logical. There are too many unknowns in that sequence of events._"

"_And regardless of how many times you repeat _that_ to me, I will do it. Sometimes, one needs to take a leap of faith. And no, it's not 'leaping' in the literal sense, it's another—_"

"_Human expression, meaning to do something despite lack of knowledge._" The saboteur's visor flashes in amusement, and the image tilts a bit upwards as a result of Shockwave nodding. "_I would suggest waiting until your delusions about the drones being the captives reprogrammed is tested, in the event of possible retrieval and erasure of the controlling coding._"

"_But we don't have the time for that, and you know it. Every time one of us is downed, those drones fall on them like vultures and bring them back to the dome. Our numbers are dwindling, and with that new Superion-like being… we can't afford to wait._" Jazz answers seriously, though with a hint of sadness. "_I'll do it, Shockwave. At the very least, I'll be able to buy you some more time. Just… take care of the rest of 'Bots, would you?_"

"_Why can't you send Mirage instead of breaking in yourself?_"

"_Because you said it, Shockwave. We don't know what's in there. And while he's an excellent spy, he has a hard time adapting, and what's to say the Quintessons don't have more powerful sensors in there? No, Raj, and his cloaking device, is more useful out here. First Aid said you were close to getting those updates ready, ain't you?_"

"… _We are. Your arguments are logical. I will support this endeavor, and strive to offer as much cover as possible without endangering the rest of us. However, if you aren't outside or have managed to give us any signal of success by an Earth's rotation cycle after the infiltration—_"

"_It's called a day, my mech. And yes, I get. Lack of news means bad news. If you don't know if I'm still online, mark me as deactivated._"

"_Unless your theory about reprogramming is proven correct._" Jazz snorts, and the smile on his faceplate is happy and grateful.

"_Aw, I _knew_ you cared._"

And the screen goes black.

Optimus reboots his optics a couple of times, but it stays so.

"The following discussion is not relevant." Shockwave, the present Shockwave, adds, answering the sudden ending of the memory. "Following events were the attack on the dome, the immediate identification of one of the ground-bound 'drones' as a mech, and his disablement." The Decepticon scientist lifts his left servo, cannon attached, to signal the dark red mech by his side as explanation, all optics once more on him. "The rest of the drones, along the mechs mingled with them, fell in disarray, and, sometime during the subsequent battle, Jazz infiltrated the dome. We recovered Ironhide, the Aerialbots, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, as well as managing to damage the dome's structure, but Jazz vanished and was presumed captured." And every single one of them turns to the four 'humans', only to tense at the sight.

Starscream, Soundwave and Prowl are worriedly looking at their fourth, the silvery white Autobot's servos trembling near the saboteur's shoulder plates, but not touching.

The Head of Special Operations himself is hunched down, almost to the point of being curled in his seat, grasping his own helm tightly and with his visor offline.

Now that he's aware of it, Optimus can hear the stuttering fans of the black and white mech trying to cool him, though sounding as if they're having a hard time doing so despite every-mech knowing he's undamaged.

"D-Dark—Dark and gray and dead and where-where are you taking me? What the slag are you—_Silence_." The Prime jumps in his seat at that last word, though it's in response to the voice that has spoken it.

It is not Jazz's voice, but a raspier, lower one, and with only disgust and hatred in it.

Despite this being the first time he's heard it—or the saboteur's mimicry of it—Optimus recognizes it.

The Quintessons.

"Oh, yeah? You'll have to try harder to mute me, you five-faced creep!" Jazz shouts in defiance, voice strong despite still being curled and trembling, faceplate scrunching in a snarl. "If you think you can—_You have been given an order, slave. You shall obey your Masters, you shall _always—Stuff it, Egg Frame, you are not the boss of—" The yelp is pained and the body tenses in reflex, and the rest of mechs in the room stiffen. "_You have been given an order. You will learn to obey, or you will be _made_ to learn! You were _created_ to obey, and to that you will return!_—Oh, yeah?" Jazz's voice answers, breathy though as cocky as the saboteur's usual, a lopsided smirk appearing on his faceplate despite his frame's shuddering. "And who's going to make me? You, Mister Personality?"

The following sound is not a yelp, but a loud cry, and Prowl quickly embraces the Head of Spec Ops.

"Jazz, Jazz, come on, wake up, it's not real, it's over, you're safe—"

"_You shall fail, you shall always fail, for we created you, we can change you, twist you, _bend_ you—and when we're done with you, you shall not know more than the obedience and servitude you should have never escaped!_—Go… to… the Pit."

The shriek that follows is so agonized that Optimus almost jumps out of his seat.

Almost, because Starscream stands up, wings flaring high and wide and blue lightning jumping between his dactyls, curled like claws, while Soundwave presses a hand against one of Jazz's sensory horns—

And the cry cuts short.

The saboteur's fans are the only audible thing for almost a whole klik, working as they should instead of stuttering like before, and, slowly, the black and white frame's shaking stops.

"Thanks." Jazz breathes out at last, visor dim as he lifts it to Soundwave, still hovering worriedly next to him, and the other three relax, along the rest of the room. "I… I think I believe them now."

"What happened? What was that?" Bluestreak asks, attracting Starscream's glare when the Head of Special Operations shudders again and burrows his faceplate against the side of Prowl's neck, still in the white mech's embrace.

"I don't—don't want to… Can't we talk about something happier?"

Movement almost at the edge of his visual range makes Optimus look away to see the Cassettes exchanging calculating glances.

"Not Ratbat." Laserbeak speaks suddenly, all optics falling on him.

"And neither you two." Frenzy adds, gesturing to the Fliers.

"Nor you. Your data is all jumbled." The Grounder twins glare at Ravage at his words, but the black and silver mech doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, you're also out of the question, 'cause your data is messed up too." Rumble grumbles, servos on his pelvic plating in indignation.

"From myself? Yes. From you two?" And the rest of Cassettes startle before the three Fliers smile brightly.

When, after exchanging a look, the twins nod too, the feline-like Minibot turns to Shockwave, once more on the controls.

The screen flickers, and all optics go back to it again.

* * *

**AN:** Weird ending, but the chapter was growing too big, so I'm cutting it in two.

As for the next chapter... well, I've worked out a schedule, and it seems to be working. Plus, the bunny has come back to life, and brought with it enough material for 20 more chapters, give or take, despite not having the time to write as much. Though... I'm really excited about these next chapters, and I'm eager to get them done and see how they turn up, so... Don't get your hopes up, but expect regular updates.

By the by, I'm feeling happy and able to do anything, so, if you have any requests for drabbles/missing scenes/different POVs like those in the extra chapters (_Missing Fragments_, _The Way We Were_ and _Dream Haze_), just say, and I'll try to get them written as soon as possible.

Now, on to other things. Here are the links to Mirage and the Combaticons, so follow the same procedure as always (take out the brackets and spaces) to see the images:

Mirage: tfw2005 (.com) / boards / attachments / transformers-video-game-discussion / 27343947d1359796741-transformers-legends-cyberdex-pics-mirage-front . jpg

Brawl: 4 . bp . blogspot (.com) / -ap-QJhKEJo8 / Trf9vWOzkHI / AAAAAAAAARA / dvck-czXY1E / s1600 / Brawl_Transformers_by_Rhanubis . jpg

Combaticons: 2 . bp . blogspot (.com) / -Hm-b9VQDUU4 / T03oCnYWwTI / AAAAAAAAD58 / xy4mVOxTjzs / s1600 / transformers+fall+of+cybertron+bruticus+new+concept+art+design+five+robots+vortex+blastoff+onslaught+brawl+swindle+2012+game+decepticons+combaticons . jpg


	28. Drop by Drop

Bizarre. Befuddling.

Those are the thoughts flashing through Optimus' processor at what he sees, but he doesn't take his attention away.

The frame onscreen is shiny silver and slowly modifying itself, visual band offline and plating scrunching up and—

Falling off.

A Newspark Protoform who has just been transplanted a newspark.

They're watching a mech's _birth_.

And, judging by the changes the Protoform is suffering, and the amount of plating that is coming off, the mech will be a small frame type, most likely a Minibot—

Or a Cassette.

Something which is confirmed when the process of adaptation is over, and the once average size Protoform is now a third of its size, mech-like in shape and wingless.

Slowly, the color nanites on the shiny silver plates activate, tinting it with black and red.

"_And here I was hoping we'd get Fliers this time._"

Optimus almost jumps from his seat at the unknown voice, and feels Megatron tense next to him.

"_I think we have one Flier too many already._"

This time, both leaders exchange a startled and disbelieving look before turning their attention to the screen as something on the image moves, for they have recognized _this_ voice.

Despite the lack of mechanized monotone, it is undoubtedly Soundwave's.

And their optics confirm it, as they watch the Cassette Carrier, in his original Cybertronian frame, lean down towards the Newspark Protoform, extending a cable from within his open chest compartment to plug it on a port on the back of the new mech's helm, yet another line connected to an identical Protoform sporting purple and blue-tinged plating.

He has no facemask on, revealing a small taunting smirk, and that in itself is an almost bigger surprise than his voice and speech pattern, for now he doesn't wear it either, but every-mech knows it's because the Quintessons made it that way.

"_If they had been Fliers, _I_ would be the one to keep an optic on them._"

"_Which is why it's better they aren't. I need to watch after you enough without having to monitor whatever you teach our creations._" The Decepticon TIC answers, smirk still in place, as he looks back towards the sound of approaching pede-steps.

"_Aw, now you're just being mean. I'm not that bad._"

"_You're worse._"

The screen tilts towards the Cassette Carrier when nothing happens with the Protoforms, just in time to center the image of another mech walking to stand behind the dark blue Grounder and embrace him, tugging him so that he's leaning against a streamlined chassis with his helm against a softly-angled shoulder plate, the Communications Officer's servos resting on those cupping his open chest compartment while engraved silver wings fan slightly open, the closest getting out of the screen, to frame both the Newspark Protoforms and Ravage protectively.

A Seeker.

A Silverbolt-sized silvery white Seeker with his helm completely white and red and black markings.

Model Large Recon, unless his memory banks fail him.

But Seeker frame type nevertheless.

"_But that's why you keep me around, isn't it?_" The Flier whispers, voice soft and loving and awed and grateful as his bright red optics shine with the same emotions and he nuzzles his faceplate against the Cassette Carrier's neck cabling. "_Even though I could never understand it._"

"_It's not that hard to understand._"

"_If it isn't, why don't you ever explain it to me so I can get it too?_" The dark blue Grounder lets out a subsonic purring sound in laughter, letting the other caress his plating soothingly and nudge his faceplate, visor offline.

"_Where's the fun in that?_"

"_Meanie._"

The purring only grows louder.

Feeling as if his processor is about to crash, Optimus turns to Megatron, hoping for an explanation—

And finding the other mech's optics flickering in what is an effort to stop himself from entering emergency stasis to sort out the shock of seeing his serious, emotionless and cold-sparked Communications Officer acting like a mate-bonded mech.

Which, apparently, he _is_.

"_What are their designations?_" The Seeker—a _Seeker—_asks, once more making him look at the screen.

The ones on it are both standing still now, the overtly-exaggerated pout and the smug smirk having turned to soft smiles as they look at the Newspark Protoforms, installing the data Soundwave is downloading in them.

And Optimus remembers, as if from a long-distant past, that carriers know their creation's designations because of the spark scan that leads to the confirmation or absorption of a newspark, and a designation is the way to put the essence of who a mech is in words, so who would better know the essence of a spark than the one who has thoroughly analyzed and supported it for about twelve orns?

"_Rumble._" The Cassette Carrier whispers, caressing the purplish and blue Protoform's helm with a softness almost unexpected of such a ruthless mech. "_Frenzy._" He adds, his other servo mirroring the gesture on the other Cassette's helm.

"_Ravage, Rumble and Frenzy. Quite the bunch, huh?_" The Seeker purrs, nuzzling the dark blue helm. "_I still can't believe all this is real. I have this feeling I'm going to exit recharge in my old berth next cycle, and find that me meeting you was all a really complex flux, and that all of them, all of our creations—_"

"_Will still be here when you exit recharge next cycle._" Soundwave cuts softly, nuzzling the white helm with his own. "_I will make sure of it._" He adds, the loving and soft voice turning sharp and dangerous as the visor darkens menacingly.

"_And so will I._"

"_Me too._" Both optics and visor turn to the screen, before smiles find their way to the larger mechs' faceplates.

"_Come here, Rav. Lets see if your brothers are as chatty as you were._" The Flier answers with a rumble of laughter, extending an arm, and the screen bounces as the Cassette complies, only darkness in it for some nanokliks as another purr is added to the mates' own.

"_They certainly take after you, Soundwave. Looks like I'll have to wait for the next newsparks, if I want Fliers._"

"_What, we not good enough for you?_" A really well-known voice asks, and the image comes back as Ravage's optics online again, revealing the Cassette twins with their white visors online and trained on them, scowls on their faceplates.

"_Well, if you don't want us, then we don't have to call you Creator, right bro?_" The black and red mech adds cockily, standing straighter, before turning to the one identical to him.

"_Right, bro. Say, Carrier, need help getting rid of that air-helmed creep, or are you going to teach us how to kick his aft first?_" Rumble answers, turning to look at his creators, now out of the screen's visual range, with the same high and mighty smirk on his faceplate than his brother.

"_They certainly take after _you_._" The Decepticon TIC answers, amusement clear in his voice.

"_We're slagged._" The twins let out an annoyed exclamation at the Seeker's words, and the loud yet soft purring that is Soundwave's laughter is heard once more. "_Well, time for me to take those two to the Medic. Can I count on you taking care of your Carrier for me, Rav—?_"

The screen goes black so suddenly that Optimus jumps in his seat, startled.

"What—?"

"He counted on me. And I failed him." Ravage whispers, optics offline as he tilts his helm away, the twins' servos quickly resting on his shoulder plates.

"He counted on us too, bro. It wasn't your fault."

"Who—"

"Lightflight." So quickly that his neck cables tense painfully, Optimus turns to Soundwave, who is still staring at the darkened screen. "Because he was more agile than others of his model, and brightened every area he entered and mech he met… except for the one who lighted up his world." His voice breaks, growing softer and pained at the end, and his frame starts to shake. "That's… that's what he always said. And then he would look at me…"

"Creator always told us he was the luckiest Cybertronian ever, because he got to share his spark with yours." Rumble whispers, not looking at the dark blue mech. "Even with all the problems that came with—with things being how they were."

"Meaning?" Ratchet asks, optics darkened as he analyzes them, medical protocols surely up and running, and Ravage returns the stare with a glare.

"Soundwave was kind of a public figure among high standing mechs, and he couldn't be seen with… anyone, actually. That's why the transfer was done at our residence, and why Creator was the one to take us to the Repair Center saying… saying that _he_ was our Carrier." The silver and black Cassette looks away, once more huddling into himself in grief. "He… he used to joke that since all their spark-merge creations were Grounders, he would have to wait for split sparks to get Fliers. But he couldn't confirm it. He never got to meet Laserbeak and Buzzsaw."

"He would have loved you guys. He had a lot of awesome flight tricks you would have really liked to learn." Frenzy adds with a small smile, lost in memory. "He taught us so many pranks…"

"He was _Creator_, what else is there to say?" His twin cuts with a shrug of plating, trying for defiant and confident, but sounding nostalgic and a tad sad.

"So, there you have it." Once more, Ravage finds the strength to look up at Soundwave, his brothers also turning to the dark blue mech. "The Quintessons made it seem like you had adopted them because they were already created when they caught us, and like we weren't related because they had a harder time reprogramming and reformatting me. But that doesn't change the fact that you're our _Carrier_. We _are_ family."

Slowly, the Decepticon TIC looks away—and moves closer to a worried yet unsure Starscream, to the point he's pressed against the Flier's chest plates.

"Sanders? Are you alright?" The Seeker asks softly, servos hovering over the other mech's upper arms, though without touching, not knowing how to react to the Communications Officer searching comfort from _him_.

After all, he's a Flier too, like the one Soundwave has just realized he lost.

"I believe them." Matte black wings hitch upwards, though still pressed against the equally colored back plates, at those words, a look of surprise flashing over the Air Commander's faceplate.

And then, tentatively, Starscream pulls the other mech in a hug that's eagerly returned as the red visor goes offline and disappears against the Seeker's neck cabling.

"I can't believe I didn't remember him. I can't believe I can't remember him _yet_."

"Give yourself some time. It'll come back." The Flier whispers softly, one arm keeping the Cassette Carrier close while the other kneads the neck struts until the dark blue frame relaxes.

"Wasn't this supposed to be a happy memory?" Skywarp asks, and Thundercracker buries his faceplate in his hands with a tired groan, a human gesture that Optimus feels inclined to mimic.

_Tact, thy name is _not_ Skywarp._

The twins glare at the Seeker as Ravage looks down with a grimace.

"Hey, can you fault us for getting lost in our memories?"

"Yeah, as if you would know the pain of losing a Creator, so mute it!"

"It's alright." Whatever the purple-marked Flier was going to answer, scowl mirroring the Cassettes', vanishes at those words, and, once more, all optical arrays turn to Soundwave.

Still comfortably nestled against Starscream's frame, the Decepticon TIC looks up, visor softly lit and a warm smile on his faceplate, his attention on the smaller mechs.

"They _are_ happy memories. You know how the saying goes, it's better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all. Besides, I _haven't_ lost Lightflight. Because I still have you."

The Prime barely registers the static burst of a chocked sob before a blur throws itself against the Communications Officer.

When he finally reboots his optics and takes another look at the scene, all the tension and worry he had accumulated unknowingly melt away.

Whining softly, but not in pain or fear, Ravage lets Soundwave embrace him and caress his helm, Starscream subtly moving away from them as the rest of Cassettes join the hug.

"I may not remember now, but that doesn't mean I won't ever get the memories back. Besides, we _are_ family, regardless of circumstances." The Communications Officer murmurs calmly, hugging the five smaller mechs closer.

"We missed you." One of the Grounder twins—it's impossible to know who, with them piled up on Soundwave like that—whispers, and Optimus can't help his small smile.

They may not have their Carrier back, but they will, and that's what matters.

"Plus, we have Uncle Reeds to teach us aerial maneuvers." Ratbat adds after they break the hug, though still standing close.

"Uncle _what_?!" The matte black Seeker screeches, flabbergasted, as the rest of Cassettes turn to him with too innocent expressions while the Communications Officer covers his mouth with a servo to hide his laughter.

"Come _on_, mech. You accepted the position the day you agreed to babysit us when we joined the Military." Buzzsaw answers with a short rev. "Besides, you _did_ promise you'd teach us."

Looking lost and slightly desperate, Starscream looks up at Soundwave, who just smiles widely back.

"Well, you _did_." The Cassette Carrier shrugs, his smile turning to a smirk at the horror on the matte black faceplate.

"But—But I don't have a Tetrajet anymore!"

Raucous laughter makes Optimus almost jump in his seat, so he quickly turns to see who is responsible, only to do a double take.

Because seeing Skywarp half sprawled over his Trinemate as he tries to regulate his fans, laughing without control, isn't unexpected, but Thundercracker being in the same situation _is_.

Though, he can understand their reactions, this time.

"Mech, you _are_ a Tetrajet!" The purple-marked Seeker manages to answer when they recover a bit, once more straightening in their seats. "The best flier that—" The smile doesn't disappear from his faceplate, but his optics flash with realization before he turns to the other Flier, positively beaming. "TC! I know what we can show him!"

The smirk he gets in return is enough to make the Prime's plating press closer to his struts.

"Yes, I know _exactly_ what we can show him."

"No! TC, don't you dare, you _promised_!" And in less than it takes a mech to reboot their optics, Skywarp has thrown himself to his Trinemate, servos grabbing his arms and a pleading expression on his faceplate while the other keeps his smugness and slightly malicious smirk.

"I did no such thing. Shockwave, if you please?"

"You can't do that! I'm warning you, Thundercracker!" Optimus has to exchange a look with Megatron at that, because this has to be the first time since they got out of the Protectodome when the purple-marked Seeker has used his fellow's full designation.

The Decepticon leader returns a bland look, showing it isn't an unusual situation, though with a hint of curiosity.

Obviously, now he wants to see what it is that Skywarp is so keen on keeping to themselves.

As is the Prime, to tell the truth.

"Come on, Warp. We're doing this for Starscream, don't you want to get him back?" The blue-striped Flier asks almost sweetly, a condescending smile on his lips, and the other scowls.

"Slag Screamer! Don't you dare—"

"_Screamer_?!" Reeds screeches once more, a murderous look on his faceplate, and the other two Seekers reboot their optics in surprise, as if they forgot he was there.

And then, Skywarp smiles.

It's something that makes warnings go off in Optimus' processor.

"Aw, he doesn't remember yet and he already hates it. Ain't he cute?"

"—_and slow and clumsy and annoying—did I say annoying? 'Cause he's annoying, and slow and clumsy and stupid and an aft and—_"

All optics turn to the screen in surprise at the purple-marked Seeker's voice, but it stays black while the hyperactive babbling goes on.

"TC?"

"Yes, Warp?"

"I hate you."

"I know."

"—_and did I say annoying? 'Cause he's—_"

"_Yes, Skywarp, you said annoying _five times_ already._" Thundercracker's voice cuts as the screen finally comes to life, revealing the purple and black Seeker in his original frame turning around with an expression of innocence that, stunningly, _is_ genuine.

"_Duh, that's 'cause he's _five times annoying_. Oh, and did I say—_"

"_Skywarp._"

"_Yes, TC?_"

"_You're ranting._" The Flier reboots his optics in surprise before pouting, never stilling in his walk next to the blue Seeker.

"_I'm not ranting, ranting is done when you're angry, and I'm not angry, I'm annoyed, and—Oh!_" His expression brightens almost in less than a nanoklik, the pause enough to allow Optimus to decipher the quickly spoken words of before. "_You're saying I should be angry, right? 'Cause I can be angry! In fact, I'm really angry ABOUT HAVING A WINGMATE SO ANNOYING AND SLOW AND—_"

The screen goes black again with a tired whine, though the shouting in the background still goes on, to Optimus' astonishment.

And then, all sound stops.

The image reappears so fast that the Prime has to reboot his optics to focus on it.

Skywarp, once more, is on it, though this time with a wide bright grin that is too similar to Wheeljack's 'I've got an idea I'm going to try _now_' expressions.

Meaning, _take cover_.

"_Skywarp, whatever you're thinking, _no_._" Thundercracker's voice quickly interjects as his Trinemate turns to him, black servos obviously belonging to the blue Seeker grabbing white shoulder vents. "_No, no, and _no_._"

"_But—_"

"_No._"

"_But—_"

"No_._"

Silence.

"_We could swap wingmates!_"

"_I've said—Wait, what?_"

"_We could swap wingmates!_" The purple and black Seeker repeats with a bright grin, bouncing in place, and the black servos tense.

"_No, there's no way we're walking up to him to ask if we can _swap wingmates_. Absolutely _no way_._"

"_But we're going to mess the flight exercise otherwise, and you know it! We'll be the laughing stock of every batch of Seekers to ever come through the War Academy for vorns to come! And he's _the best_!_"

"_Exactly. He's _the best_. What makes you think he'll agree to becoming our wingmate?_"

"_Well, we can always ask, can't we?_"

Purple servos grab the black ones before the screen becomes a mess of color, Thundercracker letting out a high pitched yelp as purple engulfs everything—

And a loud crashing sound follows, the screen suddenly black, making everyone jump in their seats.

"_Ow._" Slowly, the image lightens, showing what looks like a ceiling. "_Why is there a wall here? Don't they know people can slam into it?_"

"_Skywarp._" The blue Seeker growls as the image moves yet again, though a lot slower this time, revealing the other Flier sitting on the ground with a bright grin. "_How many times have I told you _not to warp around like that_?!_"

"_Hey, look, doors! Do you know which one is his? Never mind, I'll try them!_" The purple and black hyperactive mech bounces upright with a burst of his thrusters, quickly running to the first door, pressing the access pad and rushing inside before the door is fully opened. "_Not here!_" He shouts as he runs out, someone yelping from inside, before turning to the next and repeating the operation.

The screen goes black with a defeated groan.

"_Not here! Not here! Not—Oomph!_" The image that pops up is one that makes both the memory Thundercracker and the present one rev their engines in laughter, and the actual Skywarp hide his faceplate behind his servos with a whimper.

The purple and black Flier onscreen is pressed against a door, as if he had slammed into it when he tried to rush inside—something that likely happened—with a dumbfounded expression.

Slowly, he takes a step back and presses the access pad, but the door doesn't bulge.

"_TC, it's not working._" He whines, and Optimus can hear Megatron's purring of his engine as he chuckles, watching his most troublesome Seeker paw at the pad as if it would solve something.

"_That's because it's locked._" Skywarp stops his pawing and reboots his optics with a dumbstruck look.

"_Doors can be locked? Since when? Can ours? Why didn't I know they could—?_" The door opens suddenly, and the black and purple Flier jumps away with a startled yelp.

The white, red and blue Seeker on the doorstep is _not amused_.

"_What._"

"_You're here!_" The hyperactive mech squeaks, bouncing in place. "_You're here, you're here, you're here, you're—!_"

The image blurs a bit as the blue Flier rushes to his Trinemate and clasps a servo against his mouth, muting his babbling.

"_Yes, he's here, now _stop_._" He growls, the image of the dark-colored Seeker changing to reveal the deadpanned look on the dark faceplate. "_Huh, hi, look, I wanted to—I mean, _we _wanted—we wanted to _ask_, I mean, not that—_" The babbling stops and the image tilts a bit, as if Thundercracker straightened. "_What I mean to say is that we wanted to ask you a favor._"

Red optics move from one mech to the other before they go offline as the colorful Seeker moves back into his room—

And gestures for the other two to follow.

"_Put him on the chair, you can sit on the berth. And _no touching anything_._"

The room they enter is packed full of trinkets, and maps, and pieces and parts and tools and Thundercracker is whirling around so fast that they can barely distinguish anything else.

"_What's this? What's that? What does that do? And that? And that? What's this thing around here that blinks?_"

"_Don't. Touch. Anything._" The image centers the white and red Seeker at the hiss, but, to their astonishment, he quickly calms down and points to the chair. "_Now, sit down. I've got a task for you._"

"_You do?_" Both Thundercracker and Skywarp ask at the same time, and, when the other simply gestures to the chair again, the black and purple Flier obeys as the blue one moves to the, surprisingly, unoccupied berth.

"_I do. Now, grab this. I need you to count how many stars are in this map._" The holographic projection comes to life with a touch, and the dark Flier's optics pale in surprise.

"_There are a lot of them._" Skywarp whispers, looking over the strange constellations and galaxies. "_Where is this from? What is this one called? And that one? And—?_"

"_There _are_ a lot of them. That's why I need you to count them._"

And then, to Optimus' astonishment, the black and purple mech obeys.

The look, somehow menacing and obviously ordering to _stay still_, Starscream shoots at the screen makes both the leader of the Autobots and his Decepticon counterpart tense, more at the lack of hostility than at the order per se.

… Though the order is also something to take into account.

Not that the memory Thundercracker seems to care.

"_What are you—?_" The blue Seeker speaks, voice alarmed though low when the multicolored one pulls out his wrist uplink cable.

"_Quiet._" The other Flier hisses, optics darkening menacingly, but Skywarp's swearing makes them both turn to him.

"_I've lost count!_"

"_Then start again. Open your neck ports._" Smiling widely at the answer to his predicament being handed so easily, the darker mech obeys, starting to count once more—and baring the straight connection to his processor to the other Flier.

When the white and red Seeker jacks in, the other lets out a fritz of static in surprise, but smiles quickly afterward, not letting Thundercracker do more than tense, judging by the jerk of the screen.

"_Tickles._" The teleporter snickers, happiness quickly vanishing when he turns to the projector once more. "_I've lost count!_"

"_Then start again._" The not yet Decepticon SIC repeats calmly, optics dim as he concentrates on whatever he's doing to the other mech.

Skywarp loses count four more times, the answer always being the same, before his perpetually present smile diminishes and, finally, becomes a pout.

"_This is boring! Why do I have to do this?_" He scowls, and, optics once more their usual red, Starscream disconnects and puts the cable back in place.

"_How many did you count?_" He asks calmly, retrieving the holographic projector and shutting it down.

"_Three hundred fifty-two. Why did I have to do it? It was boring and useless and—_"

"_How many did you count?_"

"_Three hundred fifty-two, I told you already. What, are you glitched? Or are you lacking a processor? That would explain your speed, you wouldn't have it weighing you down and—_"

"_How many did you count?_"

"_Three hundred fifty-two! This is the third time you ask me that, so try to remember it!_" The black and purple Flier hisses, annoyed.

Starscream smiles triumphantly.

"_You remembered._" Thundercracker's voice is both awed and dumbstruck, and Skywarp turns to the screen with confusion. "_Primus, Skywarp, you _remembered_._"

Red optics flash almost white with realization.

"_I… I can think. I can _think_! I can elaborate multiple complex processor threads and follow them to their end! And have them be _registered_ in my memory banks! And—Oh, by the Allspark, I can _work_ my teleportation matrix, my coordinates algorithms, my _flight systems_!_" The dark Seeker squeaks, excited, before turning to the multicolored one. "_You fixed me! I didn't even know I was damaged, but you _fixed me_!_"

"_Vector Sigma created, and the Senate's assigned Medical Team told you it was a personality issue._"

"_Yes, that's what they said… How did you…?_" Thundercracker answers softly, image centering on his future Trineleader while the dark mech dims his optics and rummages through his processor.

"_It was an energy imbalance, a simple matter of recoding the energy expenditure and rewiring the paths. His self repair will take care of that, but he'll need a couple more joors to do it. His warping ability will be lessened, he won't be able to teleport as many times nor as far as before, but at least he'll be _accurate_ when doing so._" Starscream explains calmly, wings twitching in a nonchalant gesture. "_Unless that kind of behavior appears on mechs with an activation time longer than a couple of orns, it tends to be explained as root coding of the personality matrix, and thus is never looked into. I'm surprised you even thought to bring him to me._" And the slight suggestion for an answer to that is handed when red optics turn to meet the screen.

"_I… Actually, that wasn't our plan._" Wings twitch as red darkens, demanding an explanation while expressing slight annoyance. "_I thought Skywarp was… being Skywarp. How did you—_"

"_We wanted to ask you to swap wingmates with us._" The black and purple Seeker interrupts, still chirpy but not as annoying as before.

"_No._" Starscream answers immediately and without a nanoklik of doubt, and the other two obviously deflate, despite Thundercracker's previous claims to not hope. "_Not without making sure you can keep up with me first._"

The smirk is daring and depreciating, but the two Seekers straighten nevertheless, eager for the chance to prove themselves.

"_Time to fly!_" Skywarp crows, reaching for the other two, and purple fills the screen as the blue Flier begins to shout a warning—

And quickly goes black as the memory is ended.

"Needless to say, we _did_ manage to keep up." The present Thundercracker adds cockily, sitting straight and looking down at the rest of mechs in the room.

"What is a spark?" All optics and visors turn at the softly spoken question, and the image they are met with isn't neither expected nor exactly hopeful, though not for what one could have expected.

Starscream—or Reeds, to be more accurate—is still turned to the screen, though the dimness of his optics is enough to let them know he's not really seeing it.

One of his servos is tightly clenched against his chest plating, just over his spark chamber, and the expression on his faceplate is clearly dreadful.

"Our life source. Our soul." Ratchet answers equally quietly, and red optics pale further as the servo clenches tighter.

Fear.

"All parameters are unchanged as to those recorded prior to capture by the Quintessons." Shockwave's voice, in comparison, is loud in the silence, but the reason Optimus startles is the words spoken, not their volume.

And how Starscream visibly relaxes in his seat, turning around with hope and relief in his optics and faceplate.

He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, trying to find an answer, but settling for a nod in the end.

"I have a request." Prowl's simple sentence attracts their attention, yet, unlike the previous spoken words, it is the tone that makes the Autobot leader tense.

Warning, menacing.

Not answering is not an option.

"I believe your claims that we were those individuals before we got captured, but we have yet to see that."

"See what?" Bluestreak, nervous and twitching softly in place, blurts out, huddling into himself with doorwings tightly pressed against his back-struts as cool blue optics find him.

"The capture."

Cursing inwardly, Optimus exchanges a look with Megatron.

Neither of them has been told about their capture either, and it is something that, now that it has been mentioned, they want to remedy.

Though they know one thing for sure about it.

Autobots and Decepticons won't appear as allies, or two completely unrelated factions.

They'll be enemies, no matter the point of view it is shown from.

Are they ready to do that to their soldiers, their friends?

_No. But we don't have a choice._

They both know, so they turn in unison to look at Shockwave and Ironhide, still close to each other and calmly awaiting their orders.

A nod, and it's done.

As one, the temporary SICs look at the one who will shed light in the event that changed their functions and themselves to a point they never even thought possible.

Calm and collected as always, Mirage dips his helm in agreement and turns to the screen.

_Three. Two. One…_

Darkness explodes.

* * *

**AN:** I can't believe I managed to jinx things as badly as I did...

Well, no matter. I'm back! Took me way too long, but better late than never, right?

I'm not promising anything this time, regardless of how planned the next chapter is and motivated I am, 'cause I got a change of schedule in my job, as you probably noticed, and until a couple of days ago, I barely lived to do anything more than sleep and work.

And then, I come up with this. My apologies, I know nothing much seems to happen in this chapter, but every single thing is important, and I tried (I swear I did) to put only the most essential details, but... Well, to put it simply, I planned to finish with the 'flashbacks' here, but there's still one left (and so many other things that had to be left out...).

I hope I'll be able to upload sooner, but, as said before, I can make no promises.

To make up for my lateness, you are all allowed to request a different POV/short scene of your choice, and I'll either add it to the story or write it at the end of another chapter (that includes those that read but don't review, don't think I forget about you ;) A reader is a reader, and all readers are welcome and appreciated).

Also, I'm posting this late at night, so if there are any mistakes, they'll be corrected tomorrow.

By the by, I'm updating previous chapters with their corrected versions, gramatically speaking. As of now, none of them has undergone plot changes, but I'll let you know if that happens (not likely).

Thanks for still being there, and my apologies once more. Enjoy whatever you are doing wherever you are!

**Update:** Alright, I know this is not _tomorrow_, but it's at least an update. Here's a small explanation about the only thing I can remember I had to explain about: Lightflight.

As said before, he's important plot-wise, but not story-wise. What does that mean? Easy: he's important because he played an important part in Soundwave and his Cassettes' lives, but he won't be important in the story since he's deactivated, so, he'll be simply mentioned from time to time, if at all.

He's based on _War for Cybertron_'s Silverbolt, as the frame type reference: 2 . bp . blogspot (.com) / _pYa-2n4TtSY / TDZoRrG_DkI / AAAAAAAAAwo / TSKC91LCyTU / s1600 / arte+conceptual+1+Silverbolt+1 . jpg

But on _Shattered Glass_ Starscream for the color scheme (and the wings, gotta love those _wiiiiiiings_): 38 . media . tumblr (.com) / 5af513887fb6e20a6c64c99136069976 / tumblr_mg8j18ygVu1rh1j1ko1_1280 . jpg


	29. Turning Point

Optimus barely holds back his fight protocols at the shooting sounds and the dust swirling onscreen, but he certainly manages better than Megatron.

The Decepticon leader is tense in his seat and, even though it's just because he's by his side that he can hear it, his no-longer-there weapons are trying to whirl to activation, meaning there's the soft crackling hum of energy being redirected to where his fusion cannon should be attached, and his plating is flaring while still being pressed to his struts, something that seems to be an art for warmechs such as him.

Fortunately, as a quick glance shows, their four 'humans', who wouldn't understand nor trust such a reaction, are staring entranced at the screen, the Cassettes nestled against Soundwave while Jazz moves to be more comfortable in Prowl's grip, though the Autobot leader knows better.

The saboteur's preparing for anything that may happen, meaning, readying to attack.

Suddenly, this doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

"_Perceptor, are you alright?_"

"_Yes, but that one was too close._"

The shooting continues, but the dust clears to reveal the scientist kneeling next to a machine that looks a lot like the control panel of a Space Bridge.

"_How much do you need? I don't think we have much left._" And, with those words, the visual moves to show the battlefield, and both faction leaders tense.

Because those onscreen, engaged in a grappling match, are clearly themselves.

Sure, they have both been reconfigured, along every-mech else, but Optimus has kept his original color scheme, and Megatron—

"_Your efforts are futile, Prime! Why don't you just accept your defeat and cut short your suffering?_"

—Megatron is clearly recognizable even without hearing him speak, but that doesn't help, either.

"_It is not the Autobots who inhabit a rusting ship and steal from organics!_"

Dismayed, both faction leaders exchange a look, knowing what is written in each other's processor.

_Was that really me?_

Did they really hate each other so much, their fellow Cybertronian, to fall to such extremes?

Conflicted, Optimus looks away first, but catches Megatron's helm turning back to the screen almost at the same time, and can't help but think that the Decepticon is embarrassed too.

But of his silly words or his actions?

The image onscreen moves, and the Autobot leader forces himself to put that line of code away.

This is neither the time nor the place.

… Nor was it before, when the memory first began, because it's only now that the Prime notices the Cybertronian subtitles at the bottom of the screen, translating the insults and orders both faction members are shouting as Mirage observes the fight, as well as Perceptor's musings.

Why should they—Oh. Right.

None of the four mechs thinking themselves humans understand English, and taking into account this happened on Earth, and quite some years after they first exited stasis after the crash…

_English was our default language back then, as it is now. They wouldn't understand if not for the subtitles._

Meaning, they've 'heard' and still 'hear' all of the silly lines the faction leaders exchange between blows.

_Aw, slag._

If he could, Optimus would be blushing out of sheer embarrassment.

He's a Prime, a Chosen of Primus, _why_ did he lower himself to petty insults?

When did the war that ravaged their planet and destroyed almost their whole race become such a mockery?

And why didn't they notice it before and put an end to it?

The answers elude him, so Optimus focuses on the screen again, trying to forget such dark musings.

The next couple mechs engaged in battle are enough to help him with that.

Jazz somersaults easily over his adversary with a smile on his faceplate and his gun ready in his servo, but Soundwave whirls around as if he'd known the saboteur's plan all along, his outstretched arm forcing the black and white Autobot to roll away and hide behind a rocky formation as the Decepticon's shoulder cannon starts to shoot.

"That's… us?" Soundwave—no, _Sanders_, asks, and Optimus risks a look at the four deluded mechs, only to see the Cassette Carrier shaking hard and curling into Starscream's embrace, his creations worriedly hovering next to him but no longer physically in contact, as Jazz softly shakes his head as if the gesture could make everything disappear, Prowl's grip on him tightening as his doorwings press against his back-struts.

But none of them is looking away from the screen.

"It can't be…" The saboteur whispers and, at a louder explosion, the Autobot leader turns back to the recording, now focused on Superion and Menasor as the airborne Combiner takes flight—

And feels his spark sputter in dismay at the comm appearing on Mirage's visual.

A message from their Tactician to shoot the Decepticon Seekers when they approach certain coordinates.

Despite not remembering, Optimus knows they will recognize the designation of the one sending the message, for they have been told about it.

So, it is with pain that the Prime sees his former Second curl around his Third, though in fear instead of in an effort to protect the other Grounder.

Fowler is smart, always was, so the Autobot leader knows, despite no words being voiced, that he's noticed the insignias differentiating the two factions.

And realized two of those with him were their sworn enemies.

"_Who does he think I am, Bluestreak?_" Mirage whispers, but aims at the incoming jets, lead by a familiar white, red and blue Flier, as they approach to release their cargo of cluster bombs.

And fires.

The first Seeker avoids the shots gracefully with a barrel roll, but the second, a blue one, doesn't.

"Carter…" Starscream—Reeds, actually—whispers apprehensively, and Optimus sees the gliding flaps shine under the artificial lights as they extend, but that's the only movement of the four.

The Thundercracker onscreen transforms to slow his fall, the side of his thoracic plating blackened from the shot, but before he can do more else, two red and gold shapes fall on him from the cliff, sending him down with a war cry.

"_Nice shot._" Perceptor congratulates, and the spy turns to see him still busy fiddling with the cables of the Space Bridge controls.

"_How is it going?_"

"_Almost done, I just need some more—_"

The scientist's words are drowned by the whine of an opening Bridge, but the startled look on the red mech's faceplate betrays its origin point.

"_Shockwave._"

"_The Autobots have sabotaged the Space Bridge!_" Starscream's characteristic screech is easily heard over the roar of the portal opening, though it doesn't stay as such much longer.

The screen fills with a blinding white light for barely a nanoklik, and when it clears…

When it clears, matte black drones are pouring out like glitch mice and shooting at the first Cybertronian to enter their visual range, Autobots and Decepticons alike.

Still caught in their grappling, the faction leaders are the first to be hit—and the first to fall limply with their optics offline, not having had the chance to even turn around and see what came through the Bridge.

Optimus would have been embarrassed to have been caught that easily, if he hadn't been filled with horror and a thorough feeling of uselessness, watching Mirage almost literally sweep a frozen Perceptor away from the controls, watching his soldiers, his brave mechs, be brought down by a single shot, as well as the tough, beatable yet indestructible Combiners follow along, watching Prowl, his calm and collected SIC, call a retreat with his doorwings pressed tight against his back-struts and Jazz pull up a smile to calm Bumblebee down before losing it to uncharacteristic seriousness as the Minibot rushes behind the cover of some rocks—

And being unable to do _anything_ as his Autobots fall down to be covered by the drones like a wave of black Scraplets, more and more and _more_ still pouring out of the Bridge—

Halfway through his transformation, a stray shot hits Skyfire, and the Shuttle reverts to root mode with his optics offline.

The drones keep pouring, regardless of how many of their numbers the Cybertronian shoot down.

"_How are we going to get out of here now?!_" Gears shouts, avoiding being hit with a quick jerk to the side.

"_Get inside Astrotrain, you processor-less scrap-heaps!_" Starscream's screech makes Mirage turn to a rock formation near the canyon, from where the Decepticons are jumping down the chasm.

Ravage snarls up at the Seeker, who simply points into the unseen fissure in the ground.

"_They have Thundercracker too, but how do you expect to rescue them if you're also caught?!_" The Cassette curls a bit into himself—

Before turning tail and jumping into the canyon.

Blazing red optics meet the Spec Ops' agent then, and, by the jerk of the screen, Mirage tenses.

"_And what in the Pit are you waiting for, a Senatorial Private Pass? Get in gear before I decide to leave you all to serve as bait, Autoscum!_"

"_He can't be seriously—_"

"_Just _hurry up_, Gears!_" Prowl snarls before turning around to shoot at the drones, and Jazz quickly rushes up to the Seeker's position—

Who just keeps shooting at their attackers and lets the saboteur run behind him to look down at their possible escape route.

When the black and white mech turns around, it is with a smile on his faceplate and to wave them to follow.

Still pushing Perceptor around, Mirage obeys, Bumblebee by his side.

"_What the Pit are you doing, Screamer?!_" Skywarp, by his Trineleader's side shooting at their enemy, snarls, glaring at the approaching 'Bots. "_You're _betraying _Megatron?!_"

"_Do you really think we can beat them all on our own?! And, in case you haven't noticed, they're _carrying_ the fallen _back into the Space Bridge_! They don't want us deactivated, they want us _functioning_! I'm not about to give them more tools, not if I can use them to get the rest of us back!_" The Decepticon SIC screeches back, and Gears and Bumblebee shout indignantly at being referred to as mere items, before Jazz ushers them down the canyon.

Mirage follows, looking down to see Astrotrain in his ground-based alt mode and Onslaught just outside, signaling them to _hurry the Pit up!_

"_I'm not leaving Megatron there!_" The purple and black Seeker shouts, and the sound of displaced air is easily heard despite the shooting.

Optimus can't berate Mirage for turning around, even though he should've been already descending, at that, for everyone knows to keep their scans primed to Skywarp in case he teleports behind them.

But that's not what they see.

The mass of drones, walking over the frames of their fallen frame-kin as if they were but ruble, part as the Seeker falls from above, most of the group carrying a barely visible silver frame towards the Bridge being trapped under deceivingly powerful turbines—

And one of them pushing a blue-glowing riffle-like weapon against a startled white faceplate and—

Skywarp's body falls back a quite impressive distance, black helm turning gray and circuitry sparkling visibly amongst mangled metal, but it's not the sight that makes Optimus tense, nor the unheard shot or crash.

It's the spark-broken shriek that makes their audials scramble and go through a quick reboot.

The screen does a weird snapping movement as it moves to focus on their shelter behind the rocks only to follow the roaring streak of white, red, blue and _fire_ as it blasts itself to the mass of drones.

The Prime's plating presses tight against his struts at the visual and, once more, he wonders how could they all forget what a war was when on Earth.

He remembers the time Chip asked him why had Starscream kept his post as Second in Command of the Decepticons, given all they'd seen on the boy's home planet, and he remembers laughing and simply saying that Megatron was too glitched to even realize such a change was necessary.

He asks himself now if it wasn't _him_ the one glitching, because he knew why the Seeker had been named such in the first place, and that was more than reason enough to have never doubted it despite of anything.

Because the Starscream of Earth was treacherous and more of an annoying glitch than an asset, but he'd been about to destroy both humanity's home world and Cybertron itself with his plans, and there had been another reason Megatron had kept him close, one he's glad their human friends never got to know.

After all, it would have been Autobots being ripped to pieces by bare servos in such an event prior to the one onscreen.

The Seeker is positively feral, tearing through the black mass without mercy nor, seemingly, even needing to think about it, white optics fixed on the drones carrying his Trinemate's limp frame away from him—

Until a shot slams against his side.

The Flier jerks and stumbles in a futile effort to keep upright, but his optics are already flickering and about to enter stasis, like all the others—

Optimus jumps in his seat, feeling not-there weapons try to whirl to activation as the Air Commander twists around with a deafening shriek and a boom of his turbines as he throws himself to the surrounding drones, servos trapping limbs and separating them effortlessly from the frames they're attached to—

Another shot hits and the Seeker stumbles barely noticeably before turning around and ripping the weapon from the matte black servos as easily as he does the helm from the neck struts—

"_Mirage! Down!_" Prowl shouts from his position peeking over the rocks, trying to provide the berserk Decepticon with some cover fire in his rampage, and, without another nanoklik to lose, the spy jumps down the canyon and jerks as Onslaught takes a step closer.

"_What in the Pit were you waiting for? Get inside!_" The Combaticon leader shouts, pointing to the Triple Changer's cargo bay, and, when Jazz appears at his side, the noblemech obeys.

Both Autobots and Decepticons turn to him as he enters, but Perceptor waving him to his side quickly catches his attention.

"_Lift off, Astrotrain!_" Onslaught shouts as soon as Prowl joins them, the Coneheads rushing out just before the doors close and their transport drives away, not transforming to his airborne alt mode.

"_Where are they going?_" Swindle asks nervously, optics fixed on the now closed exit.

"_To cover our back-struts. There are no aerial drones, so they should have an advantage. They'll buy us enough time to put some distance between us, allowing Astrotrain to fly away safely._"

"_With a cargo full of Autobots._" The Triple Changer's voice seems to echo, even through the speakers, as he answers in a soft growl, and red and purple visual arrays turn to glare at the red-branded mechs.

"_Starscream's orders._" Onslaugh returns calmly, crossing his arms against his chassis. "_If you have anything to say against it, you can take it up to him. But I doubt he'll let you keep your helm attached to your neck struts after that._"

"_Empty words._" Long Haul snarls from his kneeling position next to a stasis locked Blitzwing, Scavenger and Scrapper, the only other Constructicons in the bay, next to him.

"_I don't know, he didn't sound too happy before we took off._" The three green and purple mechs scowl, but keep quiet at the still nonchalant words.

"_And since when are you so supportive of that traitorous Seeker, huh?_" Kickback protests, bristling. "_Since when do you get along so nicely that he would name you his Second after Soundwave got captured, huh?_"

"_Onslaught was Lead Tactician of the Decepticons, why wouldn't he name him?_" Brawl snarls back, weapons whirring before Swindle puts a servo on his upper arm to restrain him.

"_Now, now, we're all Decepticons here. Minus the Autobots, but since Screamer said to play nice with them—_"

"_And that's another!_" Scrapper growls, standing up angrily. "_What does he think he's doing, helping the Autoscum!_"

Onslaught's visor darkens in annoyance, but, before he can answer, Astrotrain shakes, forcing them all to grip the closest support available.

"_Mute it, all of you. Oh, and we're taking off, and I'm letting the Seekers in, so grab onto something._"

All visual arrays glare at the closest wall as the cargo bay doors open with a hiss and the howling of air rushing past, and, when Mirage turns to them, he sees Dirge and Thrust carrying a stasis locked Ramjet inside—

And a more gray than colored Flier touching down after them, one optic offline and having to lean against a wall to keep upright, glittering pink Energon staining his frame.

"_Primus Starscream! What the Pit did you—?!_" Scavenger's worried question is cut as the Seeker straightens, glaring him and Onslaught away when they approach as the doors close.

"_They're just color nanites, nothing to merit such a _distressed_ response._" Yet, despite his words, his voice box decides not to collaborate when instead of the usual high pitched screech it spews an almost mechanical rasp.

Regardless, none of them approach as he confidently, and more stable than after touching down inside the Triple Changer, walks up to Prowl.

The Autobot Second in Command simply looks up at his Decepticon counterpart, doorwings locked into their usual no-nonsense V-like position.

For what feels like an eternity, they just stare at one another.

And then, accompanied by the soft whirr of transformation, the Seeker's wings fall down and open, making all the others in the bay take a step back in surprise.

All minus Prowl, whose doorwings imitate the movement of the one in front of him.

"_I, Starscream, Second in Command, Air Commander and acting leader of the Decepticons, in my name and in those of my faction, offer a truce._"

"_I, Prowl, Second in Command, Lead Tactician and acting leader of the Autobots, in my name and in those of my faction, accept the truce._"

The cacophony of 'what' and 'the Pit' that echo in the room are not only from the speakers, but, unlike before, Optimus can no longer hold himself back.

Nor can the others also witnessing this event for the first time, apparently.

Regardless, none of the two SICs seems to even notice the others around them.

"_Until the sky vanishes at my pass—_"

"_Until the ground vanishes at my pass—_"

"_—__will this truce hold strong as the struts on my back… and may my wings become the word spoken, to be held proudly in accomplishment, and turn to rust if the deal should break._" They finish in unison, and silence fills the room.

"The Oath of Winged Words… Primus, Starscream, you swore _the Oath of Winged Words_?!" Thundercracker shouts, turning to look at his confused Trineleader, but Optimus knows he won't get an answer.

After all, Steve Reeds is the one staring back at them.

"I… guess?"

"_You_ had to_ do that, didn't you._" Vortex's voice through the speakers makes them all turn back to the screen, where the helicopter is now the spotlight, arms crossed against his chest-plates and a deadpanned expression on his faceplate. "_Ah, slag you. Of course you _had to_. Come here, let me take a look at that optic._"

"You_ are going to scan him?_" Scrapper asks, stunned, as the Combaticon walks up to be by the Air Commander's side despite his previous words.

"_Duh, do you think I'd be able to do my job so efficiently if I didn't have some notion of mechanics?_" He answers easily, tilting the calm Seeker's helm so as to better observe the black hole surrounded by gray plating. "_And just how many shots did you take? I know your immunity against scramblers was an advantage back there, but there's such a thing as 'too much', you know._"

"_Immunity?_" Mirage asks, and the amused engine snort makes the screen turn to the rest of Combaticons.

"_What, you thought that because the null-rays are his primary weapons he wouldn't have some counter or defense against them?_" Swindle asks mockingly, and Optimus finds himself as stunned as the rest of Autobots onscreen.

"_Guess they weren't the ones to take Blast Off, though, if those drones attacking all of us meant something._" Scavenger whispers after a moment, but the silence in the cargo bay is such that his words are easily heard.

"_Nor were you those who took Cosmos, then._" Jazz adds, tone easy-going, but faceplate serious as the spy turns to him. "_What do you think the puppeteers want with us?_"

"_Don't know, but I've got Shockwave on comm._" Astrotrain answers, and Mirage exchanges a surprised look with Perceptor. "_Apparently, he called the _Victory_ and Viewfinder patched him through. They say it's important._"

"_Then what are you waiting for? Let us talk to him._" Starscream orders with a sneer, Vortex keeping a hand on his upper arm in a gesture that looks suspiciously supportive.

Yet again, with the Seeker's looks, maybe he _is_ about to fall down if that meager help is taken away.

"_Lord Megatron, this is Shockwave. I have urgent news._" The mono-optic mech's voice echoes from the speakers, having been patched through the Triple Changer's inner communications systems.

"_So do I, starting with the fact Megatron is no longer here._" The Air Commander answers darkly, though it doesn't seem directed at his fellow Decepticon.

After a nanoklick of silence, Shockwave answers.

"_I was too late, it seems._"

"_If by that you mean you were about to inform us of an attack…_"

"_By a swarm of matte black drones armed with scrambler guns._" The not-present mech finishes, and the Seeker scowls.

"_Do you have more information than that?_" Prowl asks, and the Decepticon on the other side of the comm remains silent some more.

"_Are those prisoners?_"

"_Allies._" Starscream answers firmly, glaring at the rest of his troops as they fidget uncomfortably.

"_A logical decision._" And all Decepticons and Autobots turn to look at the speakers on the cargo bay's walls in astonishment. "_This enemy we now face will not be defeated easily, nor, I suspect, by one faction alone. Perhaps, once this conversation is over, I should try to contact the Autobot forces here on Cybertron to offer such a truce._"

"_Let the other Autobots talk to them first. Now, about this enemy…_" And the Air Commander lets the sentence trail off, so that the other high-ranked Decepticon may continue with the awaited information.

"_Some background will be needed to introduce them, for their first appearance in the history of our race goes back to before the first records, and even further back than the first Cybertronian._"

The memory ends as the screen goes black.

Still trying to make sense of all that has happened, all that they've been made aware of, Optimus turns to the four mechs exchanging conflicted looks, and feels his Decepticon counterpart follow his gaze, as well as the rest of the room's occupants.

And then, Jazz smiles cheekily.

"So… how did you say we could revert this?"

* * *

**AN:** I'm _baaaaaaaaaaack_! Better late than never, huh?

First of all, sorry for the wait. Second, I've updated last chapter's AN with the info on Lightflight, as well as some links as to his looks.

And third, this is the last chapter of the 'trip down memory lane', so, back with the action!

Also, I've been updating previous chapters with corrected versions grammar-wise. Nothing has changed, there are just less typos in them (I hope).

Now, about this chapter... well, as always, feel free to ask any questions you have, I'll answer them, or let you know if I can't. As for other things... Well, if I had something else to say, I have forgotten now, sorry...

Thanks for waiting and I hope you enjoyed (or at least didn't hate) this chapter.

I'm back to schedule, people, so read you again next weekend!

**Angel Heart:** Hi again, and here you have another upload, the first of many more (I hope)!

I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter, I worried you readers might feel it was more of a filler... So I'm really happy to hear you all liked it :)

About the first memory... well, I guess with how long it took me to update, it's understandable you didn't recognize it as such until after a bit. Besides, I write it all in the same doc before putting it in the Doc Manager, meaning, in my 'script' there are no breaks between these last three chapters, so I forgot you didn't have the ending of the last chapter there to read... I think I'll put a note or something at the start, just in case.

I'm glad you thought Skywarp was cute, because that was what I was hoping for XD And that, in turn, made the present Skywarp _really_ embarrased, which was the second goal of that precise memory (TC can be such an aft, when he wants to *snickers*).

And thanks for letting me know about the typos, it's a relief to read that...

Thanks for the review, and read you later!


	30. Drabble: Rough Start

**AN:** This is not an actual chapter, but a missing scene. It happens in the past, after the capture scene shown in Chapter 26 (Turning Point).

* * *

The Minibot tenses sharply, almost jumping back, as he rounds the corner.

A quick reboot of his optics, though, and surprise and wariness turn to calm and curiosity.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, and Onslaught tilts his helm towards the door next to where he's casually leaning against the wall.

Next to where he's been _casually_ leaning against the wall for almost two full human hours.

Not that the Minibot needs to know that.

"Waiting." He answers simply, and blue optics turn to analyze the inconspicuous closed entrance before turning to the Combaticon again, more confused than before.

"For what?"

"Whom, actually." He corrects, looking back to the blank wall in front of him, arms still crossed against his chassis, as he racks his memory files for the Autobot's designation.

_Some kind of tiny organic, Wasp, perhaps? No, Bumblebee, that's right._

Realizing the Minibot is still staring at him, patiently waiting for answers, Onslaught tilts his helm so that his visor is facing the smaller mech.

"I'm waiting for Starscream." And the Autobot just nods, turning to walk away—before stopping and whirling around with optics bright in curiosity.

"Why are you waiting for him?"

_Pest. If Starscream hadn't ordered us to—_

But, as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the Combaticon pushes it away.

Because Starscream _ordered_, but, most important, he swore the Autobots' continued functioning and undamaged status on _his wings_.

Onslaught may not be a Flier, but two of his brothers are, and, as thus, he's been updated about the Oath of Winged Words, along Brawl and Swindle.

Not that it matters, because Starscream ordered him to help the Autobots, first on that chaotic battlefield, and then when they stepped out of Astrotrain, before Scavenger whisked the Seeker away.

_Make sure the truce is kept._

Simple, though so hard at the same time…

But, he's the Lead Tactician of the Decepticons once more, and Starscream's Second for as long as the Air Commander leads them.

He can do this.

He _will_ do this.

So, feeling calmer as he reaches such a conclusion, and still as relaxed as before, he tilts his helm further to fully face the Minibot.

"Because I can."

Smug satisfaction fills him at the utterly lost expression on the smaller mech's faceplate.

They may have a truce, but that doesn't mean he has to explain himself to anymech, least of all to an _Autobot_.

Blue optics darken in annoyance as the yellow Minibot turns around.

"Fine, be that way. I wanted to find Rec Room 3, anyway, not talk to a sour Decepticreep." But, despite the scowl in his voice, the Autobot tenses immediately after those words are spoken.

Calm and slightly amused, Onslaught just observes as the Minibot looks over his shoulder plate hesitantly.

"Um, I didn't mean to…" But he doesn't finish his apology, for confusion twists the smaller mech's faceplate when he realizes the Combaticon is not angry at the insult. "Aren't you, huh…"

"Annoyed? Quite, but I'm annoyed by Decepticons too. It will take more than petty insults gained over thousands of vorns of war to break this truce." He answers easily, and the yellow mech looks relieved—

Before confusion fills him once more, making him turn around to fully face the larger Grounder.

"You're taking this pretty seriously." He comments calmly, but Onslaught easily recognizes the question underneath.

"I was ordered to do so." He finally decides to reply, glancing at the door in what he hopes is a dismissive gesture.

The Minibot doesn't move.

"By _Starscream_."

"So?"

"I thought you Combaticons hated him."

The annoyance that spikes in his processor spews from both the Autobot's insistence and presence, but the last comment is the reason the Gestalt leader turns to him with visor a deep maroon in warning.

"Now, look here, short stuff. I don't care what you Autobots think or _think_ you know, if I ever hear any of you insult our—"

The comm along the flashes of anger and worry through the Gestalt bond mute him instantly, and, for a nanoklik, Onslaught can only berate himself for losing his cool because of one puny Minibot.

Before he opens the line with Swindle, and his brother's quickly babbled words send him running down the corridor, the Autobot yelping in surprise at his sudden move.

_Slagging glitch-ridden _scrap-heaps_!_

Had they been in the _Victory_, he would have transformed and driven to Rec Room 3 as fast as he could turn the corners without slamming against the walls, but they're not.

They're not even in the _Ark_.

They're in a rusty _human military base_.

A large underground facility the Autobots' human contacts in the government lent them when their acting leader updated them with their situation and Shockwave's data.

Which, of course, included abandoning all known bases in case their enemy had located them and was preparing another assault.

The _Ark_ and the _Victory_ were the more obvious ones, but Onslaught knew even the Combaticons' own safe haven and the Insecticons' nest were compromised, since their locations appeared in both factions' databases.

So, they got Astrotrain to stop at the _Victory_ to fetch the Decepticons there and whatever Energon and tools they had the time to haul aboard, before heading towards the _Ark_ to do the same with the Autobots.

None of the mechs had been happy about their new arrangements, mostly because it meant they had to stay in the same base, but, so far, they had managed to keep to their 'halves' of the facilities.

_Not anymore._

Onslaught forces himself to stop before the door to the newly dubbed Rec Room 3, knowing that he will make a better—and more important, a _more imposing_—appearance if he walks inside calmly instead of rushing in hastily.

The sound of tires screeching on the concrete floor makes him turn to see a small yellow vehicle appear around the corner before it transforms into the Minibot.

_I don't have time for this._

"Stay out of this." He tells him before, with one last step, he opens the door.

And finds himself thrown into a cacophony of insults and shouts and clanking of metal.

He can only thank Primus that this last sound comes from Brawl and Swindle keeping Runabout and Runamuck from jumping the bunch of red-branded Minibots held back by some of the Protectobots.

"—will rip its fleshy head off its neck-struts—!"

"—going to swallow those words along your _tires_, you Deceptiscum—!"

_What, oh Primus, _what_ did I do to deserve this?_

Onslaught doesn't have a sound-related Sigma nor an Ability, but he has an alt mode with a powerful engine, so he makes use of it.

By revving it in a short but powerful roar, attracting all visual arrays to his darkened visor, arms crossed against his chassis and standing tall and firm just inside the doorway, effectively blocking the only exit.

He lowers his helm minutely, scanning the now frozen in place Autobots and Decepticons, allowing the lighting to shadow his battle mask and deepen the shade of his visor.

Judging by the uneasiness he catches on some faceplates, his intimidation tactic is working.

He knows he won't need to say anything, that his disapproving stare and stance are more than enough, that, after a week of inhabiting the same base and being reprimanded enough by their own respective superior officers, the members of each faction know better than to try and break the truce, so now they're just going to slowly separate and shuffle away from each other, with the Decepticons filling out after him when he decides the anger has dissipated enough—the Autobots would be the ones leaving if it had been an officer of their faction the one in Onslaught's place, so that's enough of a comfort for the Combaticon—

But then there's the sound of small pedes approaching from behind and the Gestalt leader feels the Minibot peek out from behind him to see what's going on inside the now silent room.

Chaos explodes again.

"—blebee, get away from that—"

"—slagging traitor, Ons—"

"—re you calling a traitor, you scrapheap!"

And Brawl punches Runabout hard enough to leave a dent in the wall the Battlecharger slams against.

"Petty insults wouldn't break the truce, you said?" The Minibot asks, dumbfounded, as the Decepticons in the room become barely more than a ball of shifting metal, punches, kicks and curses being exchanged each more easily than the one before as the Protectobots finally manage to wrestle the Minibots away from the brawling mechs.

"As long as they're just insulting each other…" He answers tiredly, exchanging a look with the calm Grounder by his side, who has recovered enough to look slightly amused—

"—away from Bumblebee, Decepticreep!"

Pain slams in his processor almost as strongly as the shot to his shoulder plate, but it's when he collides against the wall from the hit that he feels true agony, armor cracking as easily as—

_Glass. Glass Gas. Red Autobot Minibot—_

"Cliffjumper, _don't_—!"

"_Onslaught_!"

He hears the shot, but he doesn't feel it hit.

Instead, he feels something metallic slam into him, making his knee joints buckle and leave him sprawled on the floor and leaning against the wall, the warm shape nestled against his chassis, big though not too much—

And wincing in pain.

Startled at the sound, he forces his visor online, only to have it pale as he sees the yellow Minibot on his lap, servos covering his cracked bumper with a grimace of pain on his faceplate.

"What have you done?" He whispers in horror, because they had a truce, but now the Autobot is injured, got injured by _shielding him from his comrade_ and no, no, no no _no_ he's failed, he's _failed_—

The Protectobot Medic is suddenly at their side, scanning them and prying the Minibot's servos away to observe the damage—

A loud roar fills the room as white beings fly through the doorway and Onslaught quickly moves to shield the two Autobots from the wraiths that have suddenly appeared—

Warmth and relief and worry fill his spark and he looks up with visor pale in hope—

"_Starscream_." He whimpers almost inaudibly as the Seeker kneels by his side, color scheme looking dull because of the nanites not yet replaced but both optics shining a warm and piercing red as he rests a blue servo on his undamaged shoulder plate. "I'm sorry, I couldn't—"

"Be quiet and let the Medic work." The Air Commander rumbles softly, and, with a nod, he releases the startled Protectobot to let him finish his scan on the Minibot still in his grasp, grimace having softened to allow a small pained smile to appear on his faceplate in an effort to calm down his fellow Autobot.

The servo on his shoulder plate vanishes and, startled and slightly fearful, Onslaught quickly looks up.

Starscream is still by his side, standing tall and threatening with his optics almost literally blazing as he analyzes the Decepticons frozen mid-fight, none of the Autobots entangled with them, fortunately.

And then, the Combaticon realizes the growling isn't coming from the Seeker, so he turns his helm to where the mechs of the other faction were last standing, and sees black and white doorwings tremble with rage as the Praxian speaks to the red-branded Cybertronian, voice too soft to really hear, but message easy to decipher, judging by the dismayed and ashamed expressions on the Autobots' faceplates, their Head of Special Operations standing seriously by the other officer's side with a well known weapon in his servos, much to the Gestalt leader's relief.

No more shots of Glass Gas this orn, thank Primus.

"Starscream, we—"

"Quiet." The Seeker hisses, and all Decepticons flinch, slowly disentangling themselves, but not standing up. "How many times do I have to explain what a truce is. How long will it take for you to understand that we _need_ this, that we need the _Autobots_ to defeat the Quintessons and get our own back."

Once upon a time, not so long ago, those would have been questions shrieked at an almost painful pitch.

But not now.

Somehow, that makes them slam harder, and even Onslaught huddles into himself as much as his damaged shoulder and the Minibot in his hold allow him.

And then, the Battlecharger twins glare up at the Air Commander.

"The Autobots started it!"

"Does it look like I care?"

"But—"

"Enough with the excuses!" Both Grounders flinch back as red optics flash a paler orange, the memory of the Energon covering the Seeker as he rejoined them inside Astrotrain despite having been uninjured still too new in all their databanks. "I don't care how it started, I don't care who said what and when. The only thing that matters is that I can't leave you alone for ten kliks without you almost blowing everything up! Do you want Autobots and Decepticons to each go their way? Fine then, we will! We will return to the _Victory_ to trap ourselves under the ocean without an escape, waiting for the drones to get us! Or we will seek another base, and you can pray to Primus that those things don't find us before we've managed to find it, much less _fortify_ it! And when they come, we will stand to be captured, because we are too _few_ to do any real harm against such numbers, or we will run and be forced to start anew, until the time there's _no one left to fight_. Is that what you want? To be caught and experimented on, to be slaves _once more_? We're _Decepticons_! We rose against the Senate to _be free_! And now you want to throw away all this vorns of fighting for some _petty insults_?!"

The snarl dies with those last words, not even an engine growl following, but no purple-branded mech looks up from the floor they are intensely staring at, ashamed and pained at the thought.

It has been so long, Onslaught knows, since some of those mechs were reminded of Cybertron before the war, that many only remember battlefields and slaughter.

But the Combaticons were still trapped not so long ago.

They know.

And thus, they _fight_ for the truce to stay strong, for Starscream's bet—and it _is_ a bet, that mechs who've been thousands of vorns trying to extinguish each other's sparks can work together—to not be in vain.

And they failed.

_Onslaught_ failed.

"I'm sorry." The Gestalt leader doesn't even try to keep his voice down, letting it carry through the now completely silent room as the officers let their troops ponder their words. "I shouldn't have been standing so close to you in such a tense situation." He adds, looking down at the Minibot, who is starting to look better as the Medic applies some kind of gunk to the cracks in his bumper.

"No, _I_ am sorry. You told me to stay out of this, but I let my curiosity get the better of me." The Autobot answers, looking away in embarrassment.

"None of you were at fault here." Both mechs look up at that, finding the now calmer Doorwinger scanning their cracked armor before blue optics meet their visual arrays. "In fact, I must thank you, both of you, for your efforts in maintaining the truce."

"It was nothing." The Minibot whispers, clearly embarrassed at the praise, as Onslaught simply nods, accepting those words despite not fully agreeing with them.

"Thanks for taking care of my Tactician, Bumblebee." Starscream adds, and the small Autobot looks up dumbstruck, despite the Seeker being completely serious and sincere.

Though perhaps it is _because_ of it.

After all, when has _Starscream_ ever thanked anymech and _meant_ it?

"Starscream thanking someone? Now I can say I've heard everything." Onslaught tenses and quickly looks towards the sound, easily locating the three fleshbags no longer hiding behind their Autobot allies.

Brawl growls loudly, tensing as if to stand—

But a single glare from bright red optics makes him flinch back and stay silent, looking up at the Seeker in slight protest and pleading to be allowed to crush the insects like they deserve.

"The only thing you should listen to, Brawl, are actions." The Air Commander answers simply, and the tank looks back to the floor, chastised.

"Says the biggest traitor this side of the galaxy." One of the Autobots grumbles and, despite everything, Onslaught has to fight to keep from glaring at them.

"He's not the one who shot at an ally during a truce." The saboteur cuts sharply, and the Combaticon feels satisfaction well in his spark, both from him and his brothers, at the almost audible flinch.

"Everyone get back to your posts." The Autobot SIC calls out calmly, and, slowly, shuffling fills the room as mechs walk out, carrying the humans with them, before the Decepticons follow.

Brawl and Swindle stop by Starscream's side, though, nervously looking between the higher ranking officers and their Gestalt leader.

"Should we help the Autobot get to the Repair Bay?" The conmech finally manages to ask, a nervous smile on his faceplate, which the Air Commander returns with a proud smirk.

"It's not me who you should ask."

Relieved and far more relaxed, his brothers turn to the Medic, who allows Brawl to carry Bumblebee and Swindle to help Onslaught up and to where they're assured the Contructicons—well, Scrapper, Scavenger and Long Haul—are waiting with the needed tools to replace their cracked armor plates.

Before exiting the room, the Gestalt leader chances a look back, and receives not only Starscream's proud nod, but the two Autobots' too, as well as manage to catch the saboteur's words.

"Perhaps there's hope for this truce yet."

* * *

**AN:** I know, I know. After such a lack of updates, now _two_ in three days? Well, I said I was back, didn't I?

Plus, I found myself halfway through this after I was given the prompt, and I couldn't stop myself from finishing it, so why shoud I wait to post it? You've all been so patient, that I decided not to make you wait more than necessary.

Also, I have a question: What I was asked to write was 'a part depicting how well the truce has held before our TIC's and SIC's get captured', which is why it's from Onsalught's point of view. Would you like to see the other side of the situation, as in, how things were in Cybertron with their own side of the truce?

Thanks to everyone for reviewing/alerting/favoriting! You really made my day!

**Angel Heart:** What can I say? I couldn't stop myself from writing this, hope it's what you asked for.

And yes, the motto is still the same, though 'sooner better than later' is something I'm thinking of adding to it ;P

I'm glad you liked the changes, I wasn't sure how to tackle that while keeping everything in the 'guy who watches a movie' POV, but I'm happy it worked (if I'm lucky, I won't have to write that kind of POVs again... they're _hard_).

And you're free to use the Winged Words Oath, with how much our HC coincide, I can't say no to that :D

And 'better late than never' for Shockwave too XD Oh, well, it turned alright in the end (mostly).

Thanks for everything (including the prompt) and read you later!


	31. Drabble: Building the Road to the Future

**AN:** Not an actual chapter. This is from the start of the Invasion, about how things were going on in Cybertron.

* * *

Ultra Magnus doesn't say anything, doesn't _show_ anything, yet Kup knows.

"You're worried." The older mech says simply as they walk down deserted corridors.

He doesn't even try to lie.

"This isn't going to work." He answers instead, and the pale green Autobot simply moves his Cy-Gar to the other corner of his mouth.

"You haven't given him a chance."

"He has made it clear he doesn't want to have anything to do with us." He barely holds back a scowl, instead turning to look at his companion. "What am I supposed to expect from somemech who 'politely advised me' to stay away from him by pointing his weapon at my spark chamber?"

"It's been a long war, Ultra Magnus. Did you really think that he would be ready to just sit down with you and share some High Grade like you were old buddies just because we signed a truce?" The older mech asks with an amused rev.

The Commander of all Cybertronian Autobots scowls.

"I expected him to be _reasonable_."

Kup stops.

Magnus mimics him and turns to look at his companion—

And finds dark blue optics glaring at him.

"No, you expected him to be _Shockwave_."

Not deterred by the dark tone, Ultra Magnus glares back, arms crossed against his chassis.

"No mech needs to be Shockwave to be reasonable. It's just a matter of—"

"Of knowing the truce is more important than the war? He knows that!" The older mech scoffs, Cy-Gar tightly clasped between dentae.

"Which is why he threatened me at _gunpoint_?"

"Do you think you would be active now if he _didn't_ know that?"

The blue mech opens his mouth—

And closes it after a nanoklik trying to find a retort.

Because he finds himself agreeing with Kup.

"Don't take it badly, Ultra Magnus, but that reaction was because it was _you_." The veteran adds more calmly, resuming their walk, and, grimacing, the younger follows.

"The threat or the weapon?"

"Both." The green mech answers almost cheerfully.

"Shockwave didn't—"

"Shockwave is _logical_. Where's the logic of threatening an ally with whom you've just signed a truce when you know the other party also sees the logic of it? Seekers aren't logical, newspark."

"I'm not a newspark." He finds himself answering moodily, and Kup simply snorts in a 'yeah, sure' reaction.

But at least he doesn't say it aloud.

No, Seekers aren't known for being logical, but Ultra Magnus certainly expected Acid Storm to restrain himself better when the Autobots first joined the Decepticons in Darkmount.

Prowl had told him it had been Starscream who proposed the truce with an old Flier Oath, so the Cybertronian Commander of the Autobots certainly expected the Decepticon Commander of the Air Forces on their home planet would hold to it with all he had.

Obviously, he should have known better.

Fortunately, the Autobots' designated area of Darkmount is far from the Decepticons', which means there haven't been any encounters outside the meeting rooms, and Shockwave's strict orders have also helped avoid the scuffles and tension the Earth forces are complaining about almost every time they communicate with them.

But now, there will be no more Shockwave to deal with the Decepticons.

Almost three of the humans' 'months' after the initial attack, Starscream is gone, captured in one of the Quintessons' assaults on the organic planet, with his appointed Second, Onslaught, also in the list of casualties.

The Decepticon forces have behaved until now, but there's no leader to speak for them.

On Earth.

Or, well.

There wasn't.

There's a reason why Shockwave can no longer lead the Cybertronian Decepticons.

A position that has now fallen in Acid Storm's servos.

Since the corridors are still empty, except for Kup and himself, Ultra Magnus doesn't hold back the tired whine and pressure hisses of his engine.

_What did Optimus call that? A 'sigh'? … Concentrate on the issue at hand, Dion. This is no time to lose yourself in thought._

And that thought is precisely yet another reason to center himself.

He hasn't thought of himself as _Dion_ in _vorns_.

_Not since we realized we wouldn't be getting any message back from the _Ark_. When we realized we were alone. The last of the Autobot forces._

He had been scared then. The Decepticons had a strong hold of Cybertron, and Optimus had taken so many strong mechs with him…

But he'd had Kup. And Elita-1.

Elita isn't here now, one of the few who got captured by the Quintessons' initial attack on Cybertron, but Kup _is_.

"You've got to calm down, newspark. You're almost irradiating, with how hot you've got from stress. Keep that up, and you'll be dealing with squeaking joints in no time from evaporated fluids."

And even though he feels slightly insulted for that, he realizes his armor plates, tightly pressed to his struts just a nanoklik before, are fluffing out in indignation, allowing the cool air of Darkmount's tunnels to squeeze to his protoform—

Not even trying to stop it, he relaxes.

"I'll let you know that prognosis is extremely exaggerated." He answers in the end, though there's a smile on his faceplates.

Kup's smirk widens.

"I'm no Medic, but I know my fair share of mechanics, so don't try to prove me wrong."

This time, it's Ultra Magnus the one who snorts.

"He may hate your Energon refiners with all his spark output, but he's still a Seeker. Acid Storm will hold to the truce." Slightly reassured by the older mech's words, the Autobot Commander straightens, confidence returning—

And staying strong even as they round the corner and the door to the Meeting Room appears at the end.

Displaying no sign of his much lessened worry, the blue mech walks inside and takes his usual seat next to the newly appointed leader of the Cybertronian Decepticons, Kup by his right.

Acid Storm, to his hidden surprise, looks as calm and collected as himself.

The mech to the Seeker's left, however…

"Sixshot."

"Ultra Magnus."

The Decepticon is civil, but his darkened red optics betray his annoyance.

Annoyance, though. Not anger.

"Glad we don't have to lose time with introductions." Acid Storm's tone, on the other servo, couldn't have been drier even if he'd had all his fluids completely siphoned from his frame.

Kup snorts softly, and two pairs of red optics land on him for a moment, before the Seeker turns back to the blue Autobot.

"So, any news from your side?" He asks simply, almost conversationally.

Ultra Magnus doesn't know if he should be suspicious or confused.

"Worry and anger at the reported captures, but the new arrivals are settling without problem." He decides to answer, as formal as always, while he downloads the data of the mechs that have come from Earth.

Medical checkups and a list of arrangements that have been taken care of or are still pending.

As soon as he disconnects, a black servo plugs in yet another linkup cable, and the Decepticons' data joins his own.

"Those on my side are more than pissed, and ready to turn the next wave of drones into iron fillings." Acid Storm adds with a sharp smirk, and, internally, Ultra Magnus relaxes.

He knows why the Seeker's so calm now.

He's focused on their present enemies, instead of the past ones.

Either Shockwave got through him before leaving for Earth, or the new situation has driven that point home.

As each checks the received data, the blue Autobot tuning out Kup's mutterings, he can't help but be grateful for the mechs that have returned.

Quintesson attacks on Cybertron have increased in the last five orns, ever since that strange dome-like gigantic structure was sent to Earth via what Shockwave defined as a portable Space Bridge, but that, to a soldier like Ultra Magnus, simply looked like a bunch of glowing rods with their own anti-grav systems being left in strategic points of a circumference.

None of the Cybertronian on either planet know what that thing is nor what could be under it, but, taking into account the area it is located on is known for strong geothermal activity, they all assumed the Quintessons are trying to dry the planet of energy.

It is so ironic that, according to Jazz, none of the Earth-bound Decepticons laughs.

Instead, they have become even more Pit-bent on getting rid of it and their attackers, on behalf of 'their' energy sources.

Regardless of the reason, the fact is that there weren't as many 'disagreements' among the mechs on the organic planet, or, at least, not as many that required a visit to the Repair Bay afterward.

Now?

They won't know until Shockwave and Prowl send their first report, or contact them.

"You're awfully quiet."

Ultra Magnus startles out of his thoughts processes at Kup's voice, but, when he turns to him, he realizes he wasn't talking to the blue Autobots.

Blue optics are fixed on the two Decepticons, instead.

"We're working." Sixshot answers calmly, not looking up from the data, and neither is Acid Storm.

"I wasn't talking about _just now_."

And at that, red optics meet blue.

Slowly, both the Seeker and the Hexa Changer straighten.

"I may not be one, but I have a Shuttle alt mode." The green and white Decepticon replies calmly, intercrossing his dactyls over the table before leaning slightly forwards with bright yet dark optics. "Do you know the last time a Winged Word Oath was made?" None of the Autobots answer, so the other lowers his helm a bit, shadows highlighting his dangerous gaze. "Before the war started."

Startled, Ultra Magnus exchanges a look with his companion before turning to the bright green Flier by his side.

"Skywarp once told me that Starscream didn't want Megatron deactivated, no matter if he always acted as if he did so. I asked him how could he be so sure, and he stopped smiling. _Why do you think his designation is Starscream?_, he said." He stays silent after that, letting his words be analyzed.

Ultra Magnus' armor presses so tightly against his struts that it whines at the pressure.

"He didn't say more, regardless of how much I asked, and neither did Thundercracker. But we both know Starscream. And this same mech swore the truce with a Winged Word Oath even before Shockwave informed them about the Quintessons." Acid Storm explains, even more serious than any other time he has seen him. "And now, he's gone. Make no mistake, I despise all of you Autobots, but I'd rather stay functioning and free. So, we _will_ make this work."

As firm and determined as the Seeker, both Autobots agree.

And it is a lot more relieved when both of them exit the Meeting Room, a good half a joor later, for they have noticed the Decepticon's use of the plural.

_We_.

Regardless of past actions or whatever will be of them once this is over, for as long as the Quintessons continue threatening their race, they will be together against them.

Not as Autobots and Decepticons.

As Cybertronian.

* * *

**AN:** Aaaaand... that's it. Yes, I know it's short, it just wanted to stay that way.

I must say I surprised myself when that chapter wrote itself. I have to admit I was expecting something very different, but I'm happy with how it turned out, so, there you have it! :)

Next update on Saturday, most likely. Or, well... next _chapter_ on Saturday. If another drabble comes along and is done before Friday, I may post it before then (so, don't be shy and keep asking!).

By the way, should I move all the 'drabbles' to their own fic? I think they're starting to crowd the story...

**Starfire201:** Regarding your review to Chapter 26 (Turning Point): I'm glad you like the Oath, and no worries about its uses, I'm just glad it turned out alright when _I_ used it ;P Also, no, they weren't captured after the memory was cut, it's just that what followed was irrelevant, so Mirage decided that he'd shown enough.

Regarding your review to the drabble _Rough Start_: First of all, I believe there has been a misunderstanding: The chapter isn't an actual chapter, but a drabble located in the past. It happens about a week after the Quintessons' first attack, in which they captured Prime and Megatron (the last 'flashback' shown in Chapter 26). In the 'present' timeline, we left with the 'humans' accepting they're not humans at all, but still not remembering anything that isn't their lives in the Protectodome (excet for the small details they remembered seeing the past scenes). The actual next chapter will be posted on Saturday, me thinks.

Most of the Minibots were featured there as the other 'side' of the insulting match because most of the Earth Autobots that hadn't been captured are Minibots. Plus, in a new base that they shared with Decepticons, would a Minibot, who is almost half the size of most of the other mechs, go anywhere alone? Me thinks not. So, one of the humans said something (remember that comment about 'rip its fleshy head off its neck-struts'?), the Decepticons returned the jab, and it grew from there.

Thanks for the reviews, and read you later!


	32. Learning to be Themselves

Jazz can only stare dumbfounded, no answer to the question just asked even crossing his mind.

Huh, _processor_, actually, but whatever.

Thing is, he has no idea what has just been asked, too shocked by what he's seeing.

When Ironhide said they would be meeting the real humans today, he didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't _this_.

The boy's smile trembles a bit at their continued silence, neither Reeds, Fowler or Sanders answering either, and his waving hand slips down a bit.

He has brown hair and eyes, skin slightly tanned, and is wearing dark jeans and a brown hoodie, but that's not what is keeping them speechless.

It's his height.

His _size_, to be more accurate.

And that of his parents and the military man standing at his back.

They're… they're _tiny_.

Now obviously nervous, the boy takes a step back and asks something else.

As the first time, Jazz finds himself hearing only gibberish.

He can't understand a thing.

Which would be the second reason he hasn't answered the first question, besides his surprise.

"Did any of you understand that?" Fowler sounds calm and collected, but the Head of Special Operations knows he's as unnerved as himself.

How? He's just that good, that's how.

… And he can see those short white wings on his back twitching nervously, almost searchingly, much like Reeds' black ones are doing, though much more discreetly due to the fact they're folded back and hidden behind his body.

Sanders' visor blackens for less than a second before lightening again, more orange than red in confusion and curiosity, and Jazz feels his own go through the same sequence as he blinks.

It's still weird to see and experience such phenomena that once translated into easy and automatic gestures, but it's no longer _unfitting_.

In a sense, that afternoon going over their past lives in the Rec Room helped them with accepting the fact that the robotic bodies are theirs and not going anywhere, even if they didn't jog their memories more than for just some quick flashes.

He quickly pushes the thought away when it threatens to bring those vague scenes back, for the ones he has recovered are anything but happy and relaxing.

He doesn't know about the others, since they still don't really know how to talk about these things, but the only things he remembers clearly are those threatening voices claiming his status as a mere possession and pain.

Lots and lots of pain.

And at times, always after he's woken up screaming and struggling after a forgotten nightmare, he remembers unending tunnels painted in a shade of gray that seems to shout _death_.

He knows he shouldn't, but he always tries to forget those times.

That each of them has been given their own private and soundproofed room isn't exactly reassuring, even though it should be.

He's Spec Ops, he knows the only place he can be really safe in is a locked and trapped room, and even such won't be always secure.

But, lately, ever since that afternoon trying to jog their memories, he has the feeling there ought to be someone else in the bed with him when he finally clears the nightmare enough to notice his surroundings.

Never before has he felt so alone than in those times.

"Not a word." Reeds speaks up, cocking his head with eyes a pale red, and Jazz has to take a second to remember who asked and what was said.

_Ah, yes. The kid's question._

"Me neither." He adds, and Sanders shakes his head in answer.

Ironhide, standing by their side and analyzing them calmly, lets out a soft rumbling in a sort of disappointed sigh-like gesture.

Or so it sounds like, he hasn't managed to decipher all the different wordless gestures of the Cybertronian yet.

And that's another weird thing.

Their race—which is something he's finally become accustomed to think about—is called Cybertronian, like the crafts used to battle the Black Beasts, but few of them are armed.

In fact, of the four of them, only Reeds is.

Which is totally unfair, because Jazz wants a weapon too, no matter that the Air Commander doesn't have the slightest idea how to use his cannons for something other than them being his arms, despite having shot them before.

And those that _know_ they're Cybertronian won't teach him, either, which doesn't make the Military SIC any happier than the Head of Spec Ops.

Well, at least Jazz still has the same name, which is something to be grateful for, judging some others.

He still can't stop himself from teasing 'Starscream' at least half a dozen times per day, regardless of how much Fowler glares at him and 'Screamer' screeches.

_Bad Jazz, this is not the time to start laughing. Or snickering. Concentrate on the boy, he asked a question you have yet to answer._

Sobering at the thought, the Civilian Third turns to the only thing that will allow him to solve that problem.

Well, the only _person_, to be more accurate.

"What did he say?" He asks Ironhide as the robot—no, not robot, they use another word to refer to each other, but which one is it?—looks at them tiredly, and another visor and two pairs of eyes follow his gaze to the dark red being.

"He said his name is Sam, and asked yours." He answers simply, and the Head of Spec Ops smiles widely.

"Why didn't you say before, mech?" Oh, and there it is, that's the word he was looking for. "The name's Jazz, kiddo. Nice to meet you!" He adds happily, turning to the humans—and how weird it is, to not include himself in that group—with a wave of a hand.

The boy blinks, startled, before giving him a nervous smile.

The Enforcer's smile turns to a deadpanned look before he turns to Ironhide.

"He didn't understand a word, did he."

And the sound that follows he does recognize, because a snort is a snort no matter the species.

"Nope." The Weapons Specialist answers with a smirk, shaking his head softly before turning to their tiny companions to tell them something in the same messed up language they use.

And when he's finished, the boy turns back to Jazz with a wave to answer his own.

He has to force it, but he knows the beaming smile on his face looks genuine.

"This is a loss of time." Reeds scoffs, head tilted back in a gesture of superiority as the humans turn to him. "I'm out of here." He adds, already turning around, before Ironhide restrains him with a hand on a shoulder.

"Let me jog your memory. Optimus _and_ Megatron told you to come here and meet the humans, so you _will_ stay here and _get to meet them_." The dark red mech calmly explains, and the Air Commander glares at him before shrugging off his hand.

"Or what? It isn't as if that was an _order_, and _you_ have no authority over me."

"I'm Second in Command."

"So am I."

And Jazz can't help the amused smile on his lips at the cheeky reply and the annoyed glare Ironhide drills into the matte black winged being.

"We're no longer in the Protectodome, your titles have no power here." The Cybertronian growls, and Reeds' smirk only sharpens.

"Oops, no one told me." He answers simply before walking to the door, and Jazz _has_ to laugh.

"Busted." He gives simply as an explanation when the Weapons Specialist turns his dark blue eyes—optics?—to him.

"If I may, perhaps we could ease this by sitting down with a drink." Fowler suggests before Ironhide can either shout at Jazz, strangle him or try to catch Reeds.

When Sanders simply follows the Air Commander out of the room, the red mech lets out a frustrated growl and turns to the humans.

"Yeah, lets try that." He answers before telling the civilians and their military friend something.

They nod and, when the Cybertronian start walking at a slow pace, keep up with them, the boy easily conversing with the Weapons Specialist.

Jazz and Fowler simply exchange an amused look and keep quiet the rest of the walk.

Well, the Commander-in-Chief is silent, the Head of Spec Ops hums all the way to where the Military TIC is waiting for them outside the closest Rec Room, talking with…

"Hey, Blaster! What's up, mech?" Jazz calls, and the red and yellow Cybertronian returns his beaming smile and bro fist as they get to his side.

"Johnny-boy told me you were having some trouble with our organic friends, so I decided to come by and do what I do best." He answers, and the Head of Spec Ops can feel both Ironhide and Fowler relax.

"You mean, run interference so that I can pull up my next prank?" The Civilian Communications Officer lets out a bark of laughter—

Jazz can feel the fingers get between his upper back plates and his neck, but before he can do anything he's pulled back like he had been grabbed by the collar of his shirt, letting out a yelp before he feels himself pressed against vibrating warm metal—

Blaster's amusement is nowhere to be seen, a nervous smile on his face instead as he huddles into himself and, not as subtly as he's likely trying to be, tiptoes to hide behind Sanders, who is observing everything with a positively evil smirk.

Slowly, and feeling the soft growl that's making the other tremble transfer to his own body in a shiver of apprehension, Jazz curls into himself as much as the claws in his back structure allow, and looks up with what are trying to be wide puppy eyes.

He can only hope his visor allows him to still do that, but loses all hope of it working as he finds himself looking into Fowler's annoyed dark blue eyes.

The puppy eyes never work on the Commander-in-Chief.

So… he's dead.

"Er… sorry?"

"All your working life pulling up pranks, and only now do I find out you didn't just disturb the Enforcers, but Civilian Government too? What were you thinking, pulling an officer of Sanders'—"

"Easy, Fowler. He was as much a jokester before you got caught." Ironhide cuts calmly, gesturing with a hand that it's 'no biggie', but the glare that was digging into Jazz only intensifies.

With a tired sigh, the Head of Spec Ops feels the tight grip on his back vanish, blue eyes going black before a hand rubs the Civilian SIC's face.

Carefully, because he doesn't want to catch his attention again, the smaller mech moves away.

And no, he's not hiding behind Sanders, he's just there to be by Blaster's side.

"I can't believe it. It must be some kind of… glitch in his… brain module."

"Processor, actually." The red Cybertronian corrects, incredibly amused, and Fowler gives him a deadpanned look from between two fingers.

"Whatever." He grumbles tiredly, moving to press the bridge of his nose between two fingers—

And yelping as he quickly pulls his hand away from his face, confused eyes observing it before they flash paler in realization.

Hands pulled as far from himself as they can go, Fowler turns to Ironhide with slight fear, wings pressed tight against his back.

Tense in worry, Jazz steps from behind Sanders to see what has his partner so scared—

And finds his mouth fall open in surprise.

"Since when do you have _claws_?" He can only ask, poking a finger carefully and observing how what just before were blunt tips are now wickedly sharp and pointy-ended.

"It's a frame type thing." The red mech answers calmly, patting a silvery white shoulder reassuringly. "You should be able to retract them with a thought."

Forcing himself to relax, Fowler's fingers twitch before slowly curling.

And, as said, the sharp tips seem to collapse to once more form blunt fingertips.

Wings high once more, and eyes a curious blue, the Commander-in-Chief extends and retracts his newfound claws a couple more times, analyzing their workings, as Jazz observes in awe.

"Can I do that too?" He asks, hopeful, and Ironhide shakes his head with a snort.

"Not that I know. You'll have to ask Ratchet." But the Head of Spec Ops is no longer paying attention, focusing on his hands instead and willing any kind of claws that may be hidden to extend.

After some seconds of nothing happening, he lets them fall with a defeated sigh.

"Not fair. Why don't I have anything cool?" He grumbles and, far calmer and more amused than before, Fowler pats one of his shoulders as he slowly pushes him through the door to the Rec Room.

"You just haven't found it yet, Jazz. Be patient."

"But that's not fun." He hears some chuckles at his back, but his scanning gaze has already found something more interesting to pay attention to. "Hey Reeds! Sanders got us a translator!" He calls, and the matte black Flier sitting on a table with a cube of something pink and really sparkly turns to give them a curious look.

The other with the Air Commander on the table, another Flier painted bright green and looking a lot different than the Military Second, observes them too with slight amusement before tapping Reeds' arm and saying something to him while standing up.

The black mech scowls.

But the green one is already halfway out, calmly walking past the group of newcomers with a polite nod and what looks suspiciously like a pitying smile.

"And here I thought I'd managed to get rid of you." Reeds grumbles as they sit down next to him, one hand almost nonchalantly moving the cubical glass closer to himself.

Almost.

"Where can I get some?" Jazz whispers, elbowing the Military SIC with a wild smirk, and, after a second to get over his surprise, the other returns it.

"I may or may not have some contacts." He answers in a soft purr.

"Hey! Where did you get High Grade!" Ironhide bellows, slamming both hands on the table with a dangerous scowl on his face.

"From the machine, of course." Reeds is the perfect picture of innocence, even as the Head of Spec Ops grabs the cube when it's pushed to him and takes a small sip.

He can feel his whole body shiver in delight at the taste, and, before he can catch himself, he finds himself purring as he takes a bigger gulp.

"You! Put that down!" The red mech growls, pointing a threatening finger to his face, and, with a wide and non-repentant grin, Jazz obeys.

Only to see, from the corner of his eye—er, visor—how the Air Commander recovers it and moves it towards a curious Sanders.

Ironhide's glare immediately moves to the other side of the table as the Military Communications Officer lets out some kind of thrumming purr after taking a sip, the cube now in Fowler's hands.

Curious, and especially not paying attention to their 'instructor' for the day, the Commander-in-Chief takes a gulp himself.

Jazz breaks out laughing loudly at the delighted flutter of his short white wings accompanied by the tinkling of armor.

"Only drink the best." Reeds' grin is so wide as he gets his cube back that it should have made his head fall off.

"You've got to get me some." The Civilian SIC answers with awe and hope, and, slowly recovering from his laughing fit, the Head of Spec Ops sees the matte black Flier nod.

"Me too!" He quickly exclaims, straightening in his seat once more, and Sanders nods in agreement, even as the Air Commander empties the recipient with a couple of swallows.

"Consider it done." He tells them cockily, and Blaster's snickers are easily heard despite Ironhide's grumbling.

"—slagging 'Cons, always disregarding the rules, good for nothing scatter-processored Seekers—"

The humans, who have managed to get on the table sometime during their sampling, look at them curiously before turning to the red mech.

"Alright mechs, that's what we're going to do." The Civilian Communications Officer easily catches their attention with those words and a clap of his hands, a smile on his face. "You all know how to use your comm links, so we're going to use them. I'll be sending text messages translating their words, and use my speakers to translate yours to them. This way, we should be able to have an almost completely normal conversation."

Not even needing to exchange a glance, they all four nod in unison.

And, less than a second later, Jazz receives a message, that appears like a small blink on the bottom right of his sight, before opening with just a thought, having easily left the 'think you're answering a phone message' phase behind.

"Ready, mech?" It says, the sender identified as Blaster, so he just gives the red and yellow Cybertronian a thumbs up.

Reeds snorts, eyes a darker shade of red as he himself reads whatever has been sent to him, before nodding to the Civilian Communications Officer, who beams back at him.

Jazz's smirk widens, sure that the Air Commander's requests for High Grade have gone from four to five.

Judging from Ironhide's nonplussed glare, he knows it too.

"**So, what now?**" The military man asks the red mech, and Jazz's smile widens when the sees the line of text almost immediately translating those three simple words.

"**Now, we get to know each other.**" The Weapons Specialist answers in the same language, but Blaster's message easily solves the translation problem. "**Alright. These are Ron and Judy Witwicky, and this is their son, Sam. And he is Captain William Lennox of ACA.**"

"ACA?" Fowler repeats, and the humans startle at the bout of gibberish spewing from Blaster, the translation to the question just asked.

"**Alien Cooperation Act.**" The military man answers, calm and collected after they recover from the sudden surprise. "**It was created as a treaty between the Autobots and the USA Government long before the Invasion, but, when the Quintessons came, it grew to become an alliance between Cybertronian and humanity, as well as a special defense force.**"

"USA?" Jazz asks, turning to Sanders, who shrugs in answer.

"**One of the countries of Earth, this planet. It was where both Autobot and Decepticon bases were located.**" Ironhide explains calmly and, remembering their history lessons, the four of them nod.

"So, a soldier to help the Black Beasts. How did you pull _that_ out?" Reeds questions incredulously, obviously unable to comprehend how such small creatures as the real humans are could do anything to tip the balance.

"**Unmanned vehicles. Our own drones, both aerial and ground-based. Though you made short job of them.**" Lennox answers and, despite what they now know, the Air Commander straightens proudly under the dry glare, a cocky smirk on his face.

"It was my pleasure."

"**Man, how can you be so happy? You were helping the bad guys!**" The boy exclaims, confused, and the matte black flier snorts.

"I was doing my job, protecting my people. Regardless of circumstances, I'm glad I did it well. It means I'm the best." The smirk on his face sharpens almost threateningly and, unconsciously, Jazz nods in acknowledgement.

"**They were trying to save you!**"

"And they did more harm than good, at times. I was almost killed during the Black Day." Fowler retorts with a dark glare, and Ironhide has to do a double take at that.

"You were?"

"So was I." The Civilian Third adds nonchalantly, and both red mechs exchange confused looks.

"We need to get you to give _us_ history lessons. All four of you."

"Well, _I_ can tell you _all_ about Johnny-boy." Blaster answers Ironhide with a mischievous smirk, and Sanders turns to him with a nonplussed look that makes him move a bit away.

"My accounts of _your_ history will be far more precise and further embarrassing than any you may possess, _Dexter_."

"Forget I said anything." The Civilian Communications Officers lets out with a small nervous laugh, huddling a bit into himself, as the Weapons Specialist shakes his head tiredly.

"**Excuse me, would you mind speaking something understandable or at least translating? We're still here!**" The woman cuts in with a scowl, and Blaster quickly apologizes for his slip.

"**So… What did you do back in the dome?**" The boy asks after a moment of silence, and Jazz eagerly leans forward with a dangerous grin.

"You want to know, kiddo? You _really_ want to know?"

Unnerved, and not looking at where Blaster is shaking his head with a grimace, the young human nods.

"Well, let me tell you... What I did… is confidential."

It takes a couple of seconds, but when the words are finally processed, the kid's mouth falls open in disbelief.

"**_What_****?!**" He shouts shrilly, and both the Military Second and Civilian Third snicker, while Sanders looks in amusement and Fowler shakes his head tiredly.

"I was Spec Ops, brat. I'm just sparing you the nightmares by not specifying." He answers after getting his mirth under control, but the boy seems as indignant as before.

"**And the rest? Or is it classified too?**" He asks almost petulantly, looking at Fowler and Sanders before turning to Reeds.

"I was Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers." The Civilian SIC explains calmly, attracting the teenager's curious gaze.

"**What are those?**"

"**That's how we called our law keeping forces, our police.**"

"**So, a cop, a Spec Ops agent…**"

"Military Communications Officer and Air Commander." Sanders finishes while gesturing from himself to Reeds, who nods calmly.

"And not _agent_, _Head_ of Special Operations." Jazz grumbles childishly, though that only earns himself some snorts.

"**Cool. What do you transform into?**"

Astonishment makes the group fall silent, all eyes and visor staring at the kid a lot paler than their natural shades in surprise.

"Transform?" The four amnesiac mechs ask in unison—

Before Reeds leans back in his chair with a soft 'oh'.

"You know what he's talking about?" Sanders asks, and Jazz observes from the corner of his visor how Blaster and Ironhide exchange a conflicted look.

"Remember when Skywarp said I am a Tetrajet?" They all nod, and, after a second of doubt, the Air Commander looks between them nervously. "Acid Storm, the one I was talking to before, said he was going to teach me how to be one after I was done with the humans."

"Seriously?" The Head of Spec Ops exclaims, turning to the two aware Cybertronian. "We can transform? All of us?" Quietly, they nod. "How come no one ever told us before?"

"Transformation is a complex process, one that the Quintessons monitored closely to keep our memories repressed when under their control. Shockwave got rid of all restraining programming, but we decided to give you more time before you were to try it, just in case." Blaster explains calmly, looking apologetic, and Sanders puts a hand on a shoulder reassuringly.

"Then, why would Acid Storm tell Reeds that?"

"Cultural background?" Ironhide supplies with a shrug, but all of them turn to him with blank looks.

"Only one way to know for sure." The Air Commander gets to his feet at that, the smirk on his face making their two instructors tense, but the other three return it easily.

"Finally something interesting!" Jazz exclaims as they follow Reeds outside, almost vibrating with excitement.

He hears Ironhide and Blaster follow, the humans accompanying them, but he can only think about outside, and the feeling of being in a Cybertronian, however brief it was, and seeing the graceful way the blue dots representing the Tetrajets danced within his scanning range.

And, this time, it will be better, because he'll see it with his own eyes.

Er, visor.

"By the way, has any of you been outside yet?" He asks his companions, and they all stop in surprise when they realize that, no, none of them has ever seen the outside of a Protectodome.

Unable to keep himself from literally shivering in expectation, Jazz rushes down the corridor, following the directions he remembers from the maps of the base they had them memorize.

And laughs loudly as he hears loud footsteps follow, calling his name and telling him to slow down, but he can't.

He _can't_.

They're going outside, to see the world.

How can he wait, after so long trapped in his own head, under a metallic bubble and now underground?

How can he resist the pull of freedom?

The door rises slowly after he pushes the button, but he doesn't need it to be all the way up before he rolls under it and finds himself—

_Out._

Wind caresses his plating, grains of sand tickling his cabling and gears as they sneak between joints, humidity and air composition readings scrolling down one side of his HUD as he finally tilts his helm up and onlines his visor.

Blue, with streaks of white clouds randomly spread through it, and he whirls around but there's only blue and blue and blue—

He's laughing even before he notices it, his whole body thrumming in excitement, as if he's about to take flight, and he quickly turns around to face his companions with his widest smile as he feels them stepping out.

Pale blue and red optics and visor observe their surroundings in awe before another gust of air throws sand at them, and both white and black wings are raised high and spread wide to feel more of it as Sanders turns his head up and spreads his arms, visor offline to better concentrate on everything else.

The softly growing rumbling of engines makes them quickly turn their gazes to the sky, easily locating the origin when they spot the two aircrafts flying towards them, one easily recognized as a Tetrajet, a vibrant yellow stripe on each wing, while the other is unknown to them in shape, but not in color scheme.

For they have only seen one flier that sports the same shade of vibrant green as the leading plane.

They lower themselves to be almost touching the ground, their speed decreasing drastically as they near the group of grounded mechs.

And, when they are almost on top of them, their nosecones tilt to the sky and they—

Change.

Whirring and clicking fills the air as the crafts transform and, a couple of seconds after it begins, the modifications end to reveal Acid Storm and Sunstorm—whom they met as Shawn Reeds—standing before them proudly, wings displayed high on their backs, the sun gleaming on their slightly dirtied plating.

"Think you can keep up with us, Air Commander?" The green mech asks with a cocky smile, and Steve Reeds easily walks past the other three, wings still high and spread wide, with his patented high and mighty attitude.

"Get me in the air, Acid Storm, and we'll see who has to keep up with whom."

* * *

**AN:** Alright... I'm _not_ happy with this chapter. I don't know how it got itself written, but I'm not happy. And yet, I _can't_ modify it. This story is so frustrating *whine*

But, on the other hand, we're one step closer to the part I _really_ want to write. So, here's Chapter 27.

Now, lets see how 28 comes out...

**Angel Heart:** Hi again! I'm glad you like how things turned out in _Rough Start_, and Starscream's role in it. That's something that always bugged me out from the cartoon too, but... well... _cartoon_. So, my interpretation of things. He can still be a cheeky bastard, though (points to current chapter) XP

And I'm happy you liked things in _Building the Road to the Future_ too. I don't really know how that chapter came to be, but I'm glad you all enjoyed it!


	33. Memories in the Wind

He was amused at first, but now Sanders is starting to feel as annoyed as Reeds himself, difficult as such a feat seems to be.

But, thanks to Blaster's continued translating, despite Ironhide's order to cease it, they can understand everything the dark red mech is discussing with the couple of Fliers.

"**—not going to let him fly unless you get Shockwave's clearance!**"

"**It could be the last push needed! We Seekers are built to fly, don't you think such subroutines could tip something?**"

"**Yeah, his ****_battle protocols_****! We're talking about the only armed mech being the first to trip over his old self, and we both know Starscream—**"

"**Finish that sentence, Autobot, and it won't be Starscream the one you need to worry about!**" Sunstorm snarls, cutting into the argument for the first time, sensor spheres turning bright blue with a soundless thrum, which is answered by Ironhide's cannons whirring as they arm themselves.

"**Mute it, 'Con! You may not be aware of it, but Acid Storm and I were told of how the experiment with the bonds ended up, and I am ****_not_**** going to hand an enemy their most dangerous tool!**"

"**Uh, Hide, don't you think you're… going a bit too far?**" Blaster calmly steps between the seething mechs, the thrumming and whining of charged weapons no longer silent.

"**You saw how it went!**"

"**Yes, I did, but I wouldn't be calling them ****_enemies_****.**"

Taking the chance with the four knowledgeable Cybertronian glaring at each other, Sanders looks at his companions.

Jazz and Fowler are observing the others calmly, though both have taken a couple of steps away from where they initially stood, and there's wariness in the way they are holding themselves.

Reeds, on the other hand, is scowling almost as darkly as the arguing mechs, wings once more folded at his back, though trembling in anger, arms crossed against his front and sensor spheres giving off a pale blue glow.

"This is ridiculous." He hisses as the Military Third steps next to him, the Civilian officers moving a bit closer almost inadvertently to be part of their conversation. "Weren't we supposed to have retained all memories of the Protectodome once we woke up with those prior to the capture once more available to us?" The other three nod, not looking away from the growling Cybertronian, Blaster's messages translating the conversation gone now that he has joined the argument. "Then, why are they acting as if we will simply shrug them off and start shooting each other?"

"We may have been enemies, but I can't sincerely imagine myself attacking you because of something I remembered. We have learned too much since then to return to that." Fowler agrees with a tilt of his head, and Jazz nods once more, deep blue visor analyzing the subtle trembles and almost imperceptible movements of armor plates as the other mechs posture as much as growl at each other.

And Sanders is almost as entranced by the complex non-verbal communication as the rest of them are, trying to put together how one simple twitch translates into a lifting of green wings in response, and how a lower pitch in the whirring of the cannons makes Blaster take an unconscious step closer to the dark red Cybertronian while the Fliers straighten and curl their clawed fingers.

The spectacle in front of them is so enthralling that he almost doesn't notice when Reeds moves away.

Almost.

Slowly, so as to not attract the attention of the other four, he turns to see the Air Commander take some steps further away from the base, wing flaps pressing closer to the main pane in nervousness.

He exchanges a look with the Civilian officers before, silently, they follow.

A matte black hand reaches to press a couple of fingers against the side of an equally colored helm, and Sanders feels his curiosity escalate.

He recognizes the gesture, for is one that all of them use when opening a comm line with another Cybertronian for a voice call.

So, he hurries a bit to get where the other has stopped, trying to hear what he's saying.

Which is another thing the four of them haven't entirely managed to master, inner communications, meaning they speak aloud like one would with a phone.

"—saying a lot of bullshit. So, do you want to be up here when I try, or should I just knock them up the head and herd them to wherever you are now?" The Military Second stays silent for a couple of seconds, listening to the reply, before smirking with barely held back glee. "Sure, we'll be here. Reeds out."

"So…?" Jazz asks, visor shining paler in curiosity, as the hand falls away from the head and the Air Commander turns to them.

"I called Shockwave, let him know what is going on. He said he's coming, and that we can all try transforming when he gets here."

The Civilian Third answers with a beaming smile, while the other two exchange wary looks.

"Hey, it'll be a new experience for all of us." Reeds adds softly when he sees their unease, and, for the first time since he revealed Acid Storm's words back in the Rec Room, he lets his own nervousness show.

It is… strangely reassuring.

"Besides, this time we're all here. Together." Smith adds, his happy smile having turned to a smaller yet reassuring one, as he lets a hand hover between them, palm down.

Allowing a fond and thankful smile on his lips, Fowler puts his own on top of the Head of Special Operations', and the other two follow suit.

"Together."

And even as the word echoes in his mind and the warmth from the others' systems filters into his through their hands, Sanders finds himself fighting a frown.

That… was the right thing to say, but, somehow, he feels it wasn't.

"Something wrong?" Reeds asks, drawing his attention and, slowly letting their hands separate, the Communications Officer ponders the situation.

"I'm not sure." He answers at last, allowing the frown to be seen. "We are together in this, and we will be for all that comes, but… I have the feeling we shouldn't have said that."

"How come?"

"Because we should have used another expression." Fowler answers Jazz, deep in thought as they turn to him. "There ought to be a better way to say we'll be there than just 'together'." And the Air Commander blinks in surprise before rubbing his forehead with a scowl.

"Now that you put it that way…"

"Like, 'one for all and all for one', or something like that?" The Civilian Third asks, more confused than the rest. "I don't remember saying anything of the like when we were in the Protectodome, and since we were enemies before that…"

"We're not supposed to share that kind of expressions." Sanders finishes, feeling frustration growing.

"Perhaps it isn't something exclusive of a faction. We are all supposed to be the same race, after all." Reeds suggests, his own annoyance having turned to almost innocent curiosity—

_"Al_right_…" Will Daryl drawls after a moment, before sitting back more comfortably against his chair and starting on the latest experiment he's working on._

_Sanders has to keep a small smile in check during the whole hour the visit lasts, unable to look away from the curious and completely hooked Air Commander while they discuss science—_

—that is almost immediately smothered by concern as he grabs the Communications Officer by the shoulders when he sags in place, blinking to try to reconcile the image of the bedridden and bandaged dark-haired man with the scarred matte black metallic and winged creature in front of him.

"—ders, Sanders, are you alright?" He hears once he manages to clear the static in his audials, shaking his helm softly a couple of times to center himself before he reassuringly clenches the hands on his shoulders.

"Yes… Yes, I'm fine now." He answers, voice soft as he finally manages to recover his balance, taking a couple of deep breaths to center himself. "Just… a memory."

"What about?" Fowler asks in barely a whisper after a couple of seconds, Reeds not taking his hands off his shoulders despite his regained stability.

"The Protectodome, after… after Carter fell." He manages to get out at last, voice equally soft as he ponders the brief flashes, the lingering impression of that moment instead of the memory itself. "When Daryl came to visit you." He adds, turning to Reeds, whose eyes pale in understanding.

"But… why remember that?"

"Didn't… Didn't we go visit too?" Jazz asks softly once the silence after the Air Commander's query grows too uncomfortable, and Fowler looks confused at his fellow Civilian Officer for a second, before his optics flash in realization.

"We… did… why didn't I remember—?"

_Commander-in-Chief Ron Fowler and Head of Special Operations Jazz Smith from the Enforcers nod gratefully at the assistant medic that has taken them to the room, closing the door behind them and approaching the men already there._

_The Communications Officer gets to his feet as soon as the door closes, brow furrowing in concern._

_"What happened?"_

_The two men freeze, surprised, before turning somber._

_A humorless smile appears on Fowler's face as he looks away, and Jazz quickly rests a supporting hand on his shoulder._

_"I remember my name now." The Civilian Second whispers, and Sanders quickly crosses the distance to rest one hand on his free shoulder—_

—and blinks to find himself mimicking that past situation, with the Commander-in-Chief staring at the black metallic appendage on his silvery white shoulder plate like he's never seen a hand before.

Tentatively, Jazz rests one of his own on the Civilian Second's free shoulder, meeting his optics with worry plain to see despite the oddity that is a visor when compared to eyes.

Sanders only realizes he's shaking when something warms envelops his hand, and he quickly looks back into Reeds' concerned eyes as he clutches the Air Commander's appendage in search of something to steer himself by.

And in that instant, he knows.

They all _remember_.

There's something really wrong going on, something that goes back further than any of them imagined.

But as long as they're side by side, they can figure it out.

Together.

"'Till all are one."

And this time, as smiles appear on their faces, they know they've find out the right words.

"Hey, Air Commander!"

With a tug and a quick whirling movement, Sanders suddenly finds himself shielded from the unknown menace by a matte black frame, long wings spread high and wide in a warning display as soundless thrumming echoes in his chest cavity—

There's a small squeak and, curious, he leans to the side to be able to see what Reeds has been shielding them from, Fowler and Jazz mimicking his movement as the Military Second stands down with a scowl on his face hiding his embarrassment.

Acid Storm and Sunstorm are huddled into themselves, optics bright in surprise, while Ironhide has his own cannons whirling softly, and Blaster is hiding behind an immutable Shockwave.

"Can't you see we're talking?!" Reeds screeches, annoyed, in a further effort to diminish the tension his instinctual action has brought up, standing tall with his wings once more folded at his back and his arms crossed against his chest.

Slowly the others relax and approach them.

"Ready for your first flight?" The green Flier asks once they stop by their side, wariness gone to give place to cockiness.

The Air Commander's returning smirk is positively feral.

"Ready to be thoroughly embarrassed by a rookie?" He returns, and the bright green mech revs his engine in a snort before gesturing for the matte black one to follow as he steps away from the group.

"We'll see." He answers when they stop a safe distance away—_safe for what?_—though not so far that they can't be heard. "Now, we're going to treat this like we did the comm lines. Offline your optics and try to imagine you're boarding your Tetrajet."

After a nod, Reeds' eyes go black, but he doesn't move.

Slowly, one delicate-looking tri-dactyl foot lifts, the 'fingers' pressing together in response to the movement—

Before being slowly left back in its previous position.

Acid Storm observes this with confusion before turning to the rest of the group, but none of them can do more than stare back.

Soundless thrumming, softer than those previous times, makes Sanders perk up, and, more intently than before, he watches as the foot lifts once more—

And steps on thin air as if it was solid ground.

He feels his mouth wanting to fall open in disbelief as the Air Commander, eyes still black, uses that non-existent support to take yet another step upwards—

Matte black plating rearranges itself as the structures jutting out of the shoulders snap closed and fingers vanish inside the mouth of the cannons whirling to their neutral position behind folded wings as legs collapse onto themselves to conform a familiar finned tail—

And, in less than a blink of an eye, Steve Reeds is no more.

Instead, where the Military Second was walking on air a second before, now a Tetrajet hovers with the same security as if it was docked, despite its folded wings.

Acid Storm beams, awe easily seen on his face as he observes the craft immobile in front of him.

"Only Starscream would manage _that_…" Sunstorm whispers, his voice sounding strangled, as Sanders blinks, over and over, trying to make sense of what has just happened.

Reeds _transformed_.

"Alright, Air Commander." The bright green Flier calls after a moment, taking a step away to not be in the way of whatever follows. "Lets try something simple first. How about opening your wings?"

For a second, nothing happens.

And then, slowly, the wings separate from the body, flaps twitching as they reposition themselves—

There's no sound, no explosion or roar of engines or anything of the like, but, when the howling wind stops and the sand settles, Reeds is no longer there.

A shadow covers them for an instant too short to confirm it hasn't been a figment of their imagination, but they all look up.

The black Tetrajet is easy to see against the pristine blue sky and the small white clouds, but following its speed is harder to do.

They manage, though, because no one wants to miss a single nanosencond of the precise turns and rolls and the minute twitches of wings and tail that allow for the aerial maneuvers.

"Well, I'll be slagged. Barely a nanoklik in the air, and he's already recovered all his fragging titles." Acid Storm whistles appreciatively, though something tells Sanders that the words should sound annoyed instead.

"Is that Reeds or Starscream?" Blaster asks, and a tense silence covers them as they tear their gazes from the Tetrajet to exchange dreadful and hopeful looks.

"Could be either." Sunstorm grumbles after a second, arms against his chest as he looks back at the airborne Flier. "What the…" His yellow eyes flash paler as he tenses, and they all hurry to try to find out what he's seen—

And find it easily, because the matte black Tetrajet falling out of control is the only thing they can see.

"Frag!" Acid Storm shouts, engines roaring as they lift him, but Sanders knows they're too late, Reeds is falling too fast and is too far for any of the others to catch him before he crashes—

Dread and fear and horror turn to astonishment and disbelief as the Flier twist in a sequence that shouldn't be physically possible, breaking out of the uncontrolled fall to blast towards them with its belly so close to the ground that a ridge of sand rises behind its tail.

"Primus! How did he pull that out?!" Blaster squeaks, and even though the Military Communications Officer is asking himself the same he's too overwhelmed by relief that he finds himself tuning out the exclamations of disbelief from the rest—

Sensor spheres turn bright blue as the cannons whir to a ready position, barrels filling with energy—

The blast slams just in front of the group, sand crashing into them with enough strength to send them down in a clanging pile—

The yelp of pain is almost drowned by the louder slam of metal against metal plus the powerful soundless thrum of engines and the roar of the wind as the Tetrajet flies over them close enough to touch them—

When the sand clears, Sanders quickly finds a scowling Fowler on his knees, rubbing the back of his head—

And the Tetrajet hovering in front of them.

The nosecone tilts slightly towards the ground, like a beast about to run them, and the wings flare wide open with a twitching jerk—

The Military Third flinches back, closer to where the heavily armored Shockwave is getting to his knees—

But the cannons stay behind the wings, sensor spheres dark, no sign of it going to attack them again.

"Alright, you're going to get it now!" The Commander-in-Chief shouts, scowl still in place, as his engine roars threateningly, throwing himself forward—

In a flurry of sand-covered silvery white metal, Fowler disappears to give way to a large bullet that rushes towards the Tetrajet—

Which barrel-rolls away from the incoming vehicle with an ease that shouldn't have been possible so close to the ground, wings pressed close to the body before it speeds away, still almost skimming the sand under its belly—

The thing Fowler once was does an impressive almost U-turn, clouds of dust rising in its wake, before it rushes after the matte black Flier.

But the half a second it has taken it to change direction has been more than enough to take a good look at it.

It looks like a cross between a Tetrajet and a hover-car, body flatter than any of the usual intra-dome transportations, resembling more the airborne Military crafts in the cylindrical body, but exhibiting the same wheel-like structures than the ground-based civilian vehicles.

Stunned, Sanders takes a look to the side to make sure that no, Fowler isn't there, he hasn't imagined him _transforming_, before looking back at the two crafts—

The silvery white ground-based vehicle bumps the tail of the Tetrajet hard enough to turn 180 degrees, the airborne craft tumbling out of control—

_Seemingly_ out of control, because it is _not_ touching the ground, simply rolling _over_ it as it recovers control—

The matte black being stops, hovering in the air with its wings spread wide, and the silvery white one—

Opens doors that look like wings as wide as they can go with a twitching jerk—

The Tetrajet pursues fast enough that the hover-car barely has time to veer out of its way, and the chase is on once more.

"We've got to stop them!" Ironhide shouts, finally getting to his feet with cannons whirring to activation, Shockwave's own weapon humming as he too stands up—

Acid Storm breaks down laughing.

Though what really catches their attention isn't the act, but the _relief_ in his voice.

Sunstorm's wings hum almost audibly as they vibrate in expectation, a wild smile on his face, so, sensing no possible answer in the way the yellow-marked Flier is staring at the two vehicles chasing each other, Sanders looks at the bright green mech.

"Don't you see it?!" He exclaims when he notices the dumbfounded looks, gesturing to the matte black and silvery white crafts. "They're hunting!"

"Then what the Pit are you—!"

"It's a game." The mostly black Tetrajet cuts the Weapons Specialist's bellow, not looking at them as he answers. "Like—like tag, only it is a _Seeker_'s game. Seeker and Doorwinger."

"But that means…" Blaster's voice trails off, but the hope in it is unmistakable.

"It means they are Starscream and Prowl." Shockwave finishes with his usual calm and the Military Third forces himself to look at the chase differently.

The Tetrajet is close to the ground all the time, at a height where the hover-car can touch it. And when they _do_ touch, despite the wild turns and seemingly loss of control, there are no scratches or bumps left on their plating.

The airborne vehicle is the hunter once more, chasing the other despite the unexpected 90 degree turns and zigzagging, rolling and moving with as much ease as the other in an effort to get close enough to—

A tap on the side by a wing after a feint has been seen through, and, with a sharp U-turn and a burst of speed, the silvery white craft is the one on the chase.

Unable to find anything to say or do, Sanders just stays seated on the ground, observing the… the _game of tag_.

And tries to keep his heart from breaking into millions of tiny pieces.

Reeds and Fowler are Starscream and Prowl.

Reeds is _gone_.

_His scream is silent as he falls to his knees, an emptiness so cold it burns searing his chest, his heart, his lungs, and he's going to die, the agony is too much—_

_"—need you, Soundwave. I'm here, I'm never leaving you—"_

_Reeds pulls him to his chest, enveloping him in warmth and anchoring him with the pulsing of his heart and the strength of his will and the sincere reassurances blanketing his mind gone half-mad by pain—_

**_"I'm here, I'm never leaving you—"_**

_"Liar." He hears metal rasping against metal and shudders, his chest and helm tingling with the memory of warm hands asking about his well-being and promising protection. __"Liar." __His hands turn to fists and press against his temples in an effort to vanish the phantom feelings. "_Liar_." He hears a familiar voice calling an unfamiliar name as he closes his eyes tightly, white and red splotches appearing against the black of the inside of his eyelids, and something _snaps_—_

_And there—_unable to speak, not strong enough for anything, but he still manages to meet his optics_—and he sees the same tears of blood streaming down Reeds' face as there are on his own, red dripping down his ears, and nose, but he manages to get up and—_he grabs him and they slid to the floor, too weak to stay upright, but not defeated, never broken, even if_—_

He blinks, and he's suddenly standing, Blaster flat on his back on the sand-covered ground and groaning in pain, one hand softly rubbing a dent on his temple.

"And you said the dangerous one was Starscream." Acid Storm sounds amused, and, after a moment to recompose himself, Sanders looks up to see the Flier smirking at a fuming Ironhide.

"What the Pit, bro?" The other Communications Officer's voice makes him turn again to the red and yellow mech and, without losing a second, he leans forward to offer a hand to help the other get up again. "Here I am, worried about if you've been injured in Screamer's 'innocent' way to grab our attention, and what do I get? A kick to the helm! How you managed that while kneeling on the ground, though…"

"I… apologize. You startled me." He answers softly, still shaken.

But, unlike what Blaster thinks, it isn't the shot that sent them to the ground that has him shaking slightly, but the rush of memories he doesn't really remember happening, even if all happened in the Protectodome…

Or did they?

They vanish so quickly that he can barely recall the major points of each, least of all the details.

With a slam of air, the two vehicles rush past them, the hover-car once more—or still, it isn't as if he was paying attention—chasing the Tetrajet—

The black craft turns in a 90 degree angle, but the silvery white one _jumps_—

And changes in midair, forcing the other to do the same when he's tackled from the air, both mechs rolling a couple of times, to the utter amusement of the two Fliers next to Sanders, before they stop, Fowler—no, _Prowl_ on top of _Starscream_.

For a second, they do nothing but stare at each other.

And then, optics flashing in realization, they hurriedly disentangle with equal cries of surprise and disbelief.

"What the heck were you doing!" The silvery white one shouts once they have put some distance between themselves, optics pale blue.

"Me?! You were the one straddling me!" The matte black shrieks in answer, and, after a second, it clicks in place.

They're not Prowl and Starscream.

They're Fowler and Reeds.

"You were the one that attacked us!"

"What the heck are _you_ talking about? I was trying to transform!"

"That's… not good, is it." Ironhide not-asks, and the two arguing mechs turn to the group with unnerved and pleading gazes.

"You _both_ transformed, and all evidence pointed to you having regained access to the whole of your databanks." Shockwave explains, and the tension disappears to give way to disbelief. "If you will accompany me, I would like to run some checks to try to figure out what happened."

Dumbfounded, they both nod and approach the large purple Cybertronian as he makes his way back to the base, Jazz quickly joining them with a wide smile.

Reeds stops and looks back at the Military Third, still immobile in his spot, with confusion.

Slowly, Sanders follows, but stays silent during the walk, not listening to Jazz's excited babbling or whatever Ironhide and Shockwave are talking about.

Whatever he remembered is nothing more than vague feelings now, useless without the context.

But there's one thing, one small detail, that is still as clear as if he was reliving it again.

Cold metal under his knees, a warm body holding him and a soothing voice in his ear.

_"—need you, Soundwave. I'm here, I'm never leaving you—"_

And the certainty that he was in the Protectodome.

So, why did Reeds call him something that he wasn't supposed to remember?

* * *

**AN:** And, there you have it! I've got to say I'm glad this chapter got a life of its own when I started writing it, since it ended a lot better than I had first imagined it.

Now, **IMPORTANT**: I asked this in the previous chapter, but I haven't got enough answers to make a decision, so I'll ask again and PLEASE, could you answer? It'll help me a lot...

So, here's the question: I've been posting the drabbles in this fic as chapters, should I keep doing it or make another fic just for the drabbles?

Thanks in advance for your opinions.

**Starfire201:** Thank you for your opinion on the drabbles, I'll wait until I get some more opinions to make a decision about them.

As for the reviews per se, I'm glad you enjoyed the beginnings of the Resistance, as well as the meeting with the humans. The last was something that gave me a pretty big headache, and even then I wasn't satisfied with it (I think I never will), so knowing you liked it helps ease the uneasiness (sorry for the repetitions).

Thank you once more and read you later!


	34. Synchronization

Surprisingly, though not so much, the corridor isn't empty when Shockwave finally decides to release them with no answers to whatever happened outside.

What really makes Reeds and Fowler stop is _who_ is waiting for them.

Mostly because they don't look like they are doing so.

Jazz and Thundercracker are sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, and talking about… music?

No, _sound_.

Curious, the two SICs approach.

"What are you doing?" The Air Commander asks with a small frown, and the two seated mechs look up to smile at them.

"TC's trying to teach me how to get my own weaponry going." The Head of Special Operations answers cockily, wiggling his hands, while the Flier shakes his head with an exasperated look.

"He has sonic capabilities, and since the Cassette Carriers are busy with whatever Blaster is teaching Sanders, I got roped into being his instructor for the day." The Seeker explains calmly, getting to his feet and allowing his smile to waver as hope and dread battle in his faceplate. "I heard about the flight… did Shockwave…?"

"He said nothing has changed from when last he checked us, but that what happened may have been some kind of subroutine being triggered alongside flight protocols." Reeds answers with a shrug as they all start to walk away from the lab. "And that whatever it was that I did may have, in turn, get Fowler's own programming to respond."

"So… will there be a next time?" Jazz asks, curious, and the Commander-in-Chief nods.

"He said he wants to put some kind of scanning device on us to monitor our processor activity and see what, if anything, changes, but yes, we'll get to transform again." And the Air Commander feels his wings press against his back as easily as he sees Fowler's do so too, for this is an incredibly uncomfortable thought.

There he was, trying to remember the _Nemesis_' docks, the chemical smell and the ever present soft buzzing of people talking, the cool air on his face and the warmth on the rest of his body from the suit, how concrete and steel felt different under his boots as he stepped from the ramp to the Tetrajet's magnetized lower cockpit partition…

And then, he was lying on the sand with an equally confused silvery-white metallic humanoid creature straddling him, his body tingling and warm from some kind of exercise, innards humming and the weird _hunger_ that had been plaguing him since they first woke up nowhere to be felt.

In his mind, his uneasiness about the simple idea of transforming again is more than justified.

More so, because, apparently, he decided to _fire on his friends_ just to catch their attention, along slamming a wing on Fowler's head to get him to play tag with him, of all things.

Needless to say, the Civilian Second is equally disturbed about the prospect of engaging in an activity that, essentially, involves losing themselves.

Plus, Sanders is acting _weird_.

He tried to blame their acting while transformed for the reluctance the Communications Officer exhibited before joining them when they went to the lab, as well as the distance he kept from them.

But Jazz had no such qualms, nor had the other Cybertronian.

Sanders is different from them, though, yet he can't help but feel there's something going on with his friend, that they need to talk.

Even if he doesn't know what about.

… Perhaps about why only Jazz decided to wait for Shockwave to release them?

_Is he avoiding us? … Avoiding me?_

"Steve?" He feels the hand before it lands on his shoulder, and looks up at the contact to meet Thundercracker's worried gaze.

"Just… thinking." He answers, looking at the floor, and feels a blue-marked wing extend to hover close to his folded ones, a gesture that is supposed to be comforting.

And it is. Ted Carter was his Wingmate, one of the two people that he would have called brothers despite not being related by blood, and the only one that was always there when he needed to clear his head and vent his frustrations, whether by talking or sparring.

Grant was pretty good at that last one, too, and he was the one that helped him clear his mind enough to piece things together and keep going, once all his problems had been shared with Ted.

Their bodies may be different now, but Skywarp has volunteered to be his sparring instructor, while Thundercracker is his frame type-related teacher.

He still has his Wing, his… Trine?

Softly, he shrugs the hand off, and the blue-marked Flier's next step widens the distance between them.

They're not enough.

And that in itself is more than enough to make self-hatred boil inside his veins, because how can he be _that_ selfish, that _cruel_?

He lost them, seemingly forever, but he's got them back, and yet he still thinks that's not enough?

_What's wrong with me?_

"I miss it too." He almost stops in surprise, jerking his head up to see Carter—Thundercracker rest a hand on his chest plates.

And only then does he realize his own hand is pressed tightly against the metal covering his heart.

No, his _soul_.

"What?" He whispers, trying to put the hand down, but feeling as if it has been welded to his chest plates.

"The bond. I know you haven't been told about them yet, but… they're links, connections between individuals, through which we can _feel_ each other."

_He hasn't told anyone, not even Sanders, because he doesn't really know the truth himself._

_Was it his head playing tricks on him? Was it a result of the impact, of his desperation and pain as he tried to regain control of the Tetrajet?_

_It must have been, because there's no way he could have heard voices with his comm system fried._

_And yet, he can still hear the _snap_ in that warmth deeper in his heart when Ted was ripped away from him._

**_"Get away from my Trine Leader—!"_**

_The new Black Beast is returning all of Grant's moves, as if it knew them beforehand or could read his mind._

_Following Storm's order, the deputy-Air Commander tries to fly back to the Cybertronian on the security perimeter—_

_And loses control as the Aerial slams into him—_all sensors going crazy with red and red and _red_—

_The underbelly, housing the speed-boost technology, flashes red—_only agony as he feels _something_ ripped out, waves after waves of burning pain rushing through his body—_before the blue dot is _thrown back_ towards the two ground Black Beasts awaiting on the edge of their scans._

_"_Skywarp_!" He feels more than sees the crash—_numb and hurting and without breath—

_The Tetrajet is damaged, but engines and wings are still operational, so Grant should be able to fly back to the Protectodome if they manage to distract the Black Beasts surrounding him—_there's something cool caressing his sticky and sweat-covered skin.

_"_Screamer… TC says… take care—_"_

"_You_." Thundercracker's open mouth shuts with a loud snap, the hands on his shoulders falling away as the mech steps away from him with optics pale in surprise at his murderous hiss.

He doesn't know when he stopped walking, but he can feel the hand still against his chest plates clench into a fist.

"W-What? Are you—?"

"You took Grant." The Seeker falls silent for a moment, as if weighing his options, before finally nodding.

Moving so fast he hears the very air cry in pain—or maybe those are his engines coming online to allow for a speed burst worthy of Grant's survival modifications—he finally manages to separate his fist from his chest—

And slam it into Thundercracker's face.

The blue-marked Tetrajet flies through the rest of the corridor from the impact alone, slamming into the wall with enough strength to bend the metal plate before he falls to the ground, optics flickering and a dazed expression on his face as he looks up at the approaching Air Commander.

Yellowish optics go black for an instant in a blink before the downed Seeker realizes what is going on, and quickly pushes himself to his knees and covers his head when the fist moves again—

Hovering just out of touch of the slightly larger mech, Reeds' extended finger is almost as threatening as the expression on his matte black faceplate.

Only when he feels no impact coming does Thundercracker look up, optics paling in dread at the claw pointing at him.

"_That_ is for the warp drive. And be thankful I don't decide to let you know what the crash was like. I swear, it was almost worse than my own." He growls, the dangerous edge slowly disappearing from his voice as he extends the rest of fingers in an offer to help the other back to his feet.

After a second to calm himself, the blue-marked Flier accepts, one hand softly tracing the dents on his faceplate.

"You… felt that?" He whispers, and his hope is almost more audible than his words.

"I heard you too, didn't I?" He grumbles without his usual bite, and, despite the damage, Thundercracker smiles widely.

Which only serves to make him feel bad for punching him, regardless of how much he deserved it.

So, he lifts a threatening finger once more, to which the larger mech takes a step back and lifts his hands to show he's unarmed, without care for the fact his very arms are weapons.

"Don't do it again."

"As you command, Air Commander Reeds, Sir."

Silence.

"Now, _that_ is a lesson that _packs a punch_."

As one, groaning fills the corridor, but the Head of Spec Ops only smiles wider.

"Jazz, that… I can't believe you said that _on purpose_, because there's no way something that bad was _unintentional_." Fowler moans, covering his face with his hands.

"_That_ was worse than bad, worse than even _Skywarp Bad_, and that's saying _a lot_." Thundercracker adds, one hand covering his eyes as he slowly shakes his head.

Reeds snorts, and, next they know, they're all bent and out of breath as they try to keep their laughter under control.

"You're all welcome." Jazz answers when they finally calm down, though still smiling widely, and the rest exchange slightly exasperated and fond looks.

"Yeah, yeah. Distraction achieved, congratulations." The Military Second grumbles, though still smiling, as they resume their walk to the Rec Room.

"Steve?" He stops at that, letting the Civilian officers walk past him before turning to Thundercracker. "I don't know what to make of you feeling the bonds while we were in the Protectodome, but… I can feel it now." He feels something in his chest skip a beat, or a turn, or a click, or whatever, at those words. "And so can Skywarp. The bond is still there, it's just… dormant."

The blue-marked Seeker smiles, small and soft and hopeful, and no more words are needed.

The Air Commander simply rests a hand on his Wingmate's arm and squeezes reassuringly before they join the other two, waiting just outside the door to their destination so as to allow them some privacy.

The Rec Room is almost full, mechs conversing around the couple of tables or on the sofa-like contraption in front of a black screen, but it's easy to find Blaster and Sanders, seeing how they are occupying a table on their own and the rest seem to be giving them some space.

Regardless of previous doubts, Reeds still moves towards them—

Before he realizes that Jazz has stopped just at the entrance, fists tightly clenched and a scowl under his dark blue visor.

However, despite the uncharacteristic sight of the irate Head of Special Operations, Fowler looks more exasperated than worried.

"What the Hell is the meaning of _this_?!" So, when almost the whole of the room's inhabitants jump in fearful surprise at Jazz's bellow, the Air Commander has to fight back a chuckle.

"Steve…?" Thundercracker whispers by his side, and, to his amusement, slightly behind him, as if using his former commanding officer as a shield.

"This is going to be good." He answers simply, voice as low as the blue-marked Seeker's, as the rest of Cybertronian warily study the tiny black and white mech, carefully moving away from him.

… They have reason to worry, so he can't blame them for that.

"Well? Is anyone going to explain to me why the Hell there isn't any music in here? What is the 'Rec' in Rec Room for, then? Because I thought it was meant for 'Recreation', not… huh, is there a word for 'boredom' that begins with 'rec'?" The Civilian Third asks curiously, his apparent fury having vanished almost as quickly as it appeared as he turns to the secretly amused Commander-in-Chief.

"Not to my knowledge." Fowler answers, and Jazz scowls again.

"Well, there should be. I mean, this kind of boredom tops any other, so we should _create_ a word for it!"

He can hear Thundercracker chuckling as the rest of mechs slowly realize what is exactly going on and relax, some of them obviously relieved.

And so, only the two SICs notice the slowly widening grin on the Head of Spec Ops' face, more threatening than his previous scowl.

What they do notice is the growing sound—

When the music starts, marking a clear rhythm, Jazz moves, smirk turning cocky as he starts a sweeping routine with an arm, before the other mimics it, hips keeping the rhythm.

After a second, the other winged grounder—one of the Enforcers in the Protectodome, though he has no idea about neither his name back then nor his current one, jumps from the sofa to stand in front of the black and white mech and mimic his movements with a happy squeal.

A blink later, a small yellow Cybertronian, Prime's former assistant, is next to Fowler's lookalike, also mirroring Jazz, who turns around—

"A dancing class." He deadpans, and one half of a blue visor goes black an instant in a blink.

"Training and fun all in one!"

"**Party rock!**" He has to blink at the sudden message, even as the Head of Spec Ops gestures for others to join them—always following the rhythm—and the two at his back mimic him.

To his utter surprise, Sanders' twins quickly join the growing group, along Skywarp and, to his utter astonishment, Blaster.

The red and yellow mech just tilts his head at his surprised look, and, when he looks at what has pointed, he finds the Military Third bobbing his head along the music that… that sounds like it's coming from himself.

"No way…" He whispers as he approaches, and, as unexpected as it is, hears the song grow louder. "You are the one doing this?" Sanders just nods before returning his attention to the mass of dancing—and tripping—Cybertronian, Jazz leading the group with as much fluidity as if he was _made_ for it.

"**Shake that.**" He can't help but snort, sitting down next to his fellow officer to watch his purple-marked Wingmate slam a fist in Blitzkrieg—no, Blitzwing's face.

"I don't know what half of those lyrics mean, even with the translation, but this is good." He snickers, and can see Thundercracker bury his face in his hands as Skywarp quickly scurries away from the larger mech.

Fortunately for him, the tan and purple Flier seems more interested in trying to keep up with the others as Jazz starts another routine.

"I guess it was about time." The Civilian second whispers, though he's sitting close enough that the Air Commander can hear him easily. "He used to do that at least twice a week. Said it was a good way to keep the Enforcers fit and relaxed."

"Did you join sometime?" He asks, snorting at the silly-looking hand gestures that follow, and how a red mech almost steps on Rumble before his twin whisks him away.

"Absolutely not." He looks at the Commander-in-Chief, who smiles as he returns the look. "Someone needed to hold the camera." Both chuckle at that, turning their attention to the dancers as they try to keep upright when they twirl a bit too fast for some.

"They're not going to ask us to join, are they?" Thundercracker asks softly, as amused as them but a bit uncomfortable as the group stops—before resuming their dancing when the short pause in the music is over.

"No. Jazz would like to have all of us there, but he can have some respect for certain boundaries. Some times." The blue-marked Seeker doesn't seem too sure, but Reeds snickers, knowing they will be safe.

After a couple of seconds, the Air Commander has to force himself to stay silent as he feels Fowler's wings twitch along with the rhythm.

His own are, too, but it's not that unusual for him to allow the beat to take hold of a finger, or a foot.

His Wingmate doesn't seem to notice either way, head bobbing softly with the music and soft chuckles escaping him as they watch Skywarp's childish joy.

And then, Jazz starts doing turns with barely more than a couple of seconds between each, and mechs start tripping and falling—

By the time the last stretch of the song comes, only the Civilian Third is still standing, something he uses to let himself go, to the astonishment of some of the sprawled Cybertronian.

When the song stops, the room fills with cheers and claps.

And laughter, of course, but not even one angry shout.

"Thank you, thank you." The Head of Spec Ops answers with some bows as the others disentangle and stand up, some asking for a repeat, others returning to their seats. "Now you're catching my waves, Sound Man." He adds, bouncing to them and taking a sprawling seat leaning against the table.

"Designation: Soundwave."

The tone is calm, a hint of amusement in it.

The voice is well known, a reassuring presence and an annoyance, depending on the situation.

The words and their meaning, by now, are not strange either, even though they are a bit weird.

Steve's heart freezes as he turns to look at the one sitting next to him, white face impassive.

There's still cheering and loud chatter in the room, and another song has filled the background, but, to the Air Commander, there's only a soft cracking sound, like ice bearing more weight than it can…

"Yeah, yeah. My designation's Smith, Jazz Smith, agent 003 of M. No, wait, Prime is called Optimus now, so it would at the service of O."

The cheeriness of the Head of Special Operations doesn't chase away the coldness slowly filling him, doesn't light a room that is suddenly dark, doesn't bring the laughter back.

Sanders' lower face vanishes as two slabs of his cheek plating fall forward, the battle mask closing with a sharp click that makes the others around the table jump in surprise and _finally_ focus on the Communications Officer.

Reeds' chest freezes solid.

"Designation: Soundwave. Frame type: Cassette Carrier. Model: Adaptative. Function: Former Senatorial Aide, former Third in Command, Communications Officer and Head of Special Operations of the Decepticon faction. Former Third in Command and Communications Officer of the _Nemesis_' Military Force of the _Ark_ Protectodome."

The tone is mechanical, not even a hint of emotion in it.

The voice is unknown, threatening and annoying at the same time.

The words and their meaning, though, are not strange, even if some are unknown.

But the being in front of him…

"Sanders?" His voice is barely a whisper, but the dark blue head tilts a bit so that the red visor is focused on him.

He doesn't recognize it.

"Designation: Soundwave."

His heart breaks.

* * *

**AN:** Short chapter is short... but I hope what's in it is more than enough ;) Also, I'm updating early because I'm going to be away from home most, if not all, the weekend, and it didn't seem fair to make you wait until Monday to get to read this.

About the song, it's _Party Rock Anthem_ from LMFAO, and the dance is the one played on the videogame _Just Dance 3_.

Jazz's joke about his designation is a nod to _James Bond_. I couldn't leave it out, Jazz wouldn't let me continue the story otherwise XP

On the topic of the drabbles, I've decided to keep them in this fic. However, I'll modify the titles to say they are drabbles. Thanks to everybody for letting me know what you thought about this!

**Angel Heart:** As long as you get to read the chapter, better late than never, right? XP

I'm glad you liked the interaction between the humans and the 'humans'. I had quite some trouble trying to figure that one out, but I'm glad it worked. And I love how you put everything in words ([transformation and going outside]_ really show how different and not used to this life are they yet_).

Next: ... 'Cute' isn't exactly what I was aiming for when I thought of them playing tag, but it seems a pretty widespread impression... How did that happen? ... Anyway, I'm glad the thing with the memories wasn't too repetitive, and I'm afraid I can't say anything about Jazz and Soundwave without spoiling the fic... but, well, you've just read what happened, so I guess that answers some things :P

Also, I've got to congratulate you on seeing the differences in transformation. There's a teeny tiny explanation in this chapter, but you caught a major point there! Keep going! :D

Thanks a lot about your opinion on the drabbles, it helped me make a decision. And thanks for the double review! Read you later! :)


	35. Bridging the Gap

Blaster's message said to go to Rec Room 2 to 'have some fun'.

When a curious Megatron asked what that meant, Optimus could only shrug and ask him if he wanted to come along to find that out.

And so, here they are, standing at the door and feeling their sparks stop pulsing.

Because they had fun when they saw the improvised dancing class and the tripping and falling, but that is but a vague memory compared to the words still echoing clearly in their processors.

_"Designation: Soundwave."_

Still frozen in surprise and growing hope, the Prime tenses when the Cassette twins throw themselves to the dark blue mech to embrace him tightly.

And the Communications Officer returns the gesture.

It's only then that the Autobot leader realizes what the smaller ones are repeating, over and over and over.

Carrier.

"Soundwave?" The mech turns at the voice, standing and softly disengaging from the embrace, facemask in place.

"Lord Megatron."

The Decepticon leader smiles triumphantly, and Optimus can't find it in himself to nag him about how much he looks like the smug mech that counted conquering a human nuclear facility as a victory.

Frag, he feels almost like _joining_ him.

Because they have Soundwave back, somehow, so they _will_ recover the rest too, sooner or later.

In fact, if nothing special has triggered the change, it may very well mean that they just needed some more time to sort themselves.

As Shockwave first suggested.

Movement brings him back to the present, and he feels his smile turn to a confused frown as the matte black Seeker stands up and, optics on the floor, walks around the table and towards the two faction leaders.

Or the door, since they're still standing in the threshold.

"Starscream?"

The Flier stops and glares at Megatron with enough strength that the other takes a small step back.

"No." He hisses simply before walking past them.

"Reeds—" Ignoring Soundwave's voice, the Seeker vanishes down the corridor.

When he looks back at the Cassette Carrier, he sees the twins resting their servos on his arms, as if to anchor him, despite the fact that he seems as impassive as any other time before their capture.

"So… you got your old self back? How did that happen?" Jazz asks, slightly nervous, and the red visor meets his blue one calmly.

"Unknown. Possibility: Quintesson encryption harder to decode. Result: Sorting of memory data more complex, more time necessary than previous subjects."

"That's… a crude way of putting it." Fowler muses softly, and, despite his blank faceplate, his half-folded doorwings trembling softly betray his uneasiness.

"Crudeness: Irrelevant."

"So… shouldn't you, I don't know, go check with Shockwave or something?" The Head of Spec Ops adds with a smile, but Optimus knows he's just as unnerved as the Praxian.

After all, the Prime himself is too, for the change from Sanders to Soundwave has been a lot more obvious than any other he recalls.

In fact, whenever he thinks of 'Lester Storm' or 'Ryan Shepherd', he can't help but change their names for 'Megatron' and 'Ratchet' without meaning to, for they haven't changed in more than appearance to him.

Truth be told, he'd thought the Decepticon TIC's speech patterns were some kind of glitch the Quintessons had taken care of.

Looks like he was wrong.

With a simple dip of his helm towards the Autobot officers, Soundwave walks past Megatron and Optimus without a second look, turning down the corridor that will bring him to Shockwave's laboratory.

The Prime can't even reboot his optics before a big and strong servo wraps around his arm and pulls him after the Cassette Carrier, the Decepticon leader being its owner.

They just need to exchange a look for the meaning of the action to become clear.

They're going to see what Shockwave can dig up from this 'miracle' recovery, and see if there's some way to help the other three.

And if not… well, then Megatron can rant all he wants about it.

Optimus will listen.

* * *

_And here I thought we wouldn't have a welcoming committee._

As soon as he's close enough, though, Motormaster's own scanners prove that thought wrong.

Because the Seeker waiting outside the base's main entrance isn't paying them attention, isn't even looking in their direction.

So, the Stunticon leader transforms to root mode when they reach the entrance and simply spares the completely matte black Flier a glance—

And stops, listening to his Gestaltmates change at his back.

The other is, without doubt, the Starscream persona, whatever his name is, but that isn't what has stopped him short.

As close as he is now, he can not only see the way he is embracing himself and how his wings are shaking softly, but also the spark-broken scowl and dim optics not focusing on the sand under his pedes.

_What the Pit happened?_

"Who got themselves deactivated and why haven't we been told?" Wildrider asks loudly, stopping next to the larger mech and, along the rest, looking at the Seeker.

Whose scowl darkens as he looks up at the Stunticons, optics brighter yet still dark in almost explosive anger.

"Sanders, and I have no idea."

It takes some nanokliks for them to decipher that, and, even then, only Dead End seems to come up with something that isn't literal.

"Soundwave's back to himself?"

"I guess you could put it that way." The Flier grumbles, his anger drained to give way to a hint of despair. "But he's… so _different_. I can still see Carter, Grant, Will and Commander Storm in the others, but he… he's just… _not Sanders_."

"If he wears a battle-mask and sounds like a drone, he's our Soundwave." Drag Strip answers nonchalantly, and the Seeker turns to them with disbelief.

"He's always 'query this', 'suggestion that'… oh, and—" Wildrider straightens, schooling his features into an emotionless façade. "As you Command, Lord Megatron."

The others snicker at the flimsy attempt to mimic their TIC's mechanical tone, but the Flier takes a step away in horror.

"Hey, you alright, uh…"

"Reeds. Air Commander Steve Reeds." The Starscream persona whispers, shaking his helm to calm himself. "I… that's _nothing_ like Sanders."

Motormaster exchanges a look with his brothers, who are giving the Seeker funny or worried looks, before deciding to break the silence once more.

"The Quintessons probably reprogrammed him to be like the one you knew. After all, the way Soundwave's like—the _real_ Soundwave—is nothing like how a human behaves. I think." Red optics meet his before, with yet another scowl, the Flier looks away.

"I guess so…"

"So, why are you here? Planning to take a flight?" Drag Strip asks after some nanokliks of silence, excitedly bouncing in place.

A glare from his Gestalt leader calms him down some, but he can still feel how much he wants to race one of the new models of Seekers.

And, to tell the truth, Motormaster can't find it in himself to really admonish him for that, especially not after hearing of Soundwave's return.

He's just glad all his brothers are still themselves, regardless of appearances and the mostly black coloring they still sport.

"I don't know how to fly." Reeds answers with a dark scowl, and the way his wings tremble tells not of sadness, but mounting wrath. "And my best friend has just turned into a stranger in front of my very eyes. My brother is now a fucking unrecognizable drone!" He shrieks, wings fanning open high and wide, and all Stunticons step away at the murderous almost white optics. "What am I supposed to do?! How can I know I won't… I won't…" And, as quickly as it came, the rage disappears, leaving a lost and almost tiny Seeker trembling in place, arms around himself and wings hiding his body. "Is this going to happen to me too?"

"Negative."

Motormaster almost jumps in surprise at the mechanical voice, quickly whirling around to stare at the dark blue mech in the entrance.

The only physical difference is the presence of a battle-mask hiding his lower faceplate, but that in itself is more than enough, even if he hadn't spoken.

"Soundwave."

The red visor is eerily devoid of emotion as they lock gazes, but it's strangely comforting for the very same reason.

"Stunticons: Dismissed."

Without a second thought, they all walk past the Cassette Carrier and down into the base.

And yet, he can feel they're all thinking the same, regardless of the fact none of them wishes to contradict their once superior officer, just in case.

As always in this kind of situations, Wildrider is the one to better put their feelings into words.

"Aw, I wanted to see what was going to happen…"

Motormaster decides not to answer to avoid further whining…

But Drag Strip doesn't share his opinion.

Listening to his brothers bicker about the pros and cons of staying behind to spy on a telepath with enough power to get them in a really bad situation, the Stunticon leader finds himself fighting down a smile.

_It's good to know some things never change._

* * *

The Seeker is tense, ready to bolt or jump at his throat, and with his thought processes going so fast that he can only get the vaguest reading about his emotional situation.

Like always.

And yet, he has the feeling, almost the memory of a memory, that he's been able to hear this particular Flier's thoughts before as clearly as any other mech's.

But, as he has told Shockwave, his memories of the Protectodome are quite blurry in some spots, probably from Quintesson influence.

Megatron and Prime's faces when he told them he'd been Sanders all along are something he's going to keep to himself.

Until someone offers a good enough price for them.

Apparently, they thought the four of them had been their Cybertronian selves under the Protectodome, so his revelation that, as far as he remembers, they had been their human personae but with knowledge of something not being right, almost knocked them into stasis to process it.

Which brings about another memory, something about Ron Fowler suffering migraines…

_Not important now. Focus._

The matte black being in front of him hasn't moved a micrometer, but his sensor spheres are giving off the palest of glows.

It isn't that Reeds doesn't recognize him as Sanders, it's that he's been labeled _enemy_.

It hurts more than he can ever hope to express.

His memories are blurry, yes, and some are missing or mangled, but the bond, the calling in his spark…

That can't be pushed away.

There are three of them, all inactive, but one is obviously stronger, more nurtured, than the others.

And it wasn't there before the capture.

Which is something he can't remember, at least nothing after the glow of a Space Bridge activating, a moving mass of black and the tingling sharp stinging of a stasis-inducing charge—

_Not important now._ Focus_._

"Reeds."

"Soundwave."

The hostility in that well-known voice—lower than Starscream's, even though it's still high-pitched—makes his spark shrink in pain.

"Query: Follow."

"No."

He doesn't need to think it before he extends a hand towards the Flier, visor paling in a mixture of fear and hope.

"Plea: Follow."

And _that_ seems to throw the Seeker off.

But he's not answering, and the fear gnawing at his inner workings, making his spark pulse erratically as it tries to reach through that strong yet inactive bond, festers.

His outstretched hand starts to shake as his visor pales further.

Carefully feeling for the other's emotions, he finds only hesitation and—

Pain. _Hope_.

Reeds is as scared of whatever is going to happen if he accepts as Soundwave himself is.

The question is… is he _too_ scared to accept?

"Lead the way."

All his vents open to expel the warm air that was trapped inside his frame, a soft sigh-like sound being the result even as his frame visibly relaxes.

Reeds doesn't react, but the way he straightens yet keeps his wings tightly pressed against his back is more than telling of his own nervousness and relief.

Starscream was never one to back down.

So, keeping quiet, Soundwave turns around and enters the base once more, elation almost making him bounce down the corridor as he hears the characteristic thrice-echoing clicking of a Quintesson-modeled Seeker's pede-steps.

He sends a comm before-servo, along a pulse of 'or else' through the carrier-creation bonds, for the Cassettes to make sure his quarters are empty, and feels grateful to find them unoccupied when they finally reach them.

Reeds hesitates for a nanoklik, but finally enters when the Communications Officer holds the door open for him.

When the soft click of the lock being engaged echoes in the silent room, Soundwave feels the Flier's intent optics glued to his back plating.

He doesn't turn around from where he's still staring at the closed door.

Now comes the hard part.

"Well?"

Slowly, the Cassette Carrier turns around to face the Seeker, whose arms are crossed against his chassis and his faceplate is contorted in a better-than-thou expression that immediately makes another designation want pop out of his voice box.

The _right_ designation, but this is the _wrong_ time to use it.

"Apologies." The word isn't even completely out and he's already cursing himself.

Reeds, unnervingly, doesn't react.

So, Soundwave suppresses protocols older than the war—and retracts his battle-mask.

"Apologies. Behavior: Uncharacteristic in relation to previous encounters. Circumstances: Different."

And this time, the Air Commander does react.

By scowling.

"If that's all, _Soundwave_, then excuse me."

The way his designation is spitted makes it sound as an insult.

He doesn't need to be able to feel the Seeker's contempt, nor the hidden pain and desperation and loneliness to know how the other is feeling.

It's as spark-breaking as the realization that his message is not getting to the other, that he can't explain himself like this, but there's no other way, he can't—

They're alone, in Soundwave' private quarters, which are soundproof and devoid of any bugs.

A quick feeling of that inert bond is the last push he needs.

"Reeds, please, _wait_."

The Seeker freezes, despite not having moved.

With his battle-mask off, his vocal modulator is offline. And with the last barrier broken through, he knows he sounds just like—

"Sanders?"

"Yes."

Soundwave finds himself rushing to the other mech's side as he wobbles in a mix of emotions, grabbing his arms to carefully guide him to sit on the berth and join him, patiently waiting for the Flier to sort his processor.

"But… you said…"

"The only difference between Sanders and Soundwave is that one remembers a life prior to the Protectodome." He explains softly, and, once more, waits until the Seeker manages to make sense of that.

"Your voice? Your _speech pattern_?"

Uneasiness fills him, gripping his spark tightly, and he looks away from the expectant red optics, resting his servos on his lap.

If he thought it was hard before…

_But I _have_ to do it. He deserves as much._

"Before the war between Autobots and Decepticons, I was a Senatorial Aide. I served our planet's government." So far, so good. "I—we… Those in my position were to be emotionless, silent unless spoken to, and, when that happened, our answers had to be precise and to the point." He offlines his visor, fighting back the memories that try to replay as soon as his visual is filled with darkness. "I met Lord Megatron during a job, so that voice and speech pattern were how he knew me to be. I… never saw it fit to change it when I finally left the Senate and joined the Decepticons. It was just…"

"How you were told to be." And the soft rumbling voice and warm servo on his shoulder plate are just what was needed to push away all those dark memories. "You were nothing but machines to them, weren't you. Drones."

There's nothing funny about it, but a sarcastic smile makes his way up to his lips nevertheless.

"You used to call me as much."

The hand vanishes so quickly that the air hisses at the sharp movement.

Finally onlining his visor again, Soundwave turns to look at Reeds' shocked expression.

"I… did?" This time, it is the Cassette Carrier the one to rest a supporting servo on a shoulder plate.

"It's in the past now."

They stay silent for a bit, the Seeker looking down at his own servos as his optics slowly dim in confusion.

"That mask and… your speech pattern… They're some kind of defense mechanism, aren't they?" A flash of surprise manages to make it to the forefront of his processor before he quenches it.

Despite all his boisterous and cocky behavior, Starscream has always been perceptive.

"Yes."

"Then, why drop them around me? I'm… I'm not the one you knew." And the doubt in his voice is so easy to pick up that Soundwave finds himself smiling softly despite himself.

Slowly, so as to allow the other to pull away if it's too uncomfortable, he pulls an arm around his shoulder plates, mindful of the folded wings, and pulls him so that their sides are pressed flush, warmth exchanged easily with a soft tingling.

Reeds only looks up in confusion.

"You were always like this. A bit more jagged because of the war and the circumstances prior to it, but the same nevertheless. In a sense, you're more innocent now." And the Air Commander grimaces softly, though not in anger, as he tries to find a way to deal with that. "The name and frame may be different, but the spark's still the same. And while it's true that I knew Starscream, I've come to know him—to know _you_—better as Steve Reeds. You're my brother. There are no barriers between family."

Slowly, as he wrestles down his surprise, the Military SIC looks away, pondering everything.

"The… memory Raleigh—I mean, Ravage—showed us…"

His spark shrinks again, though for a very different reason this time.

"That's how I was. How I am supposed to be. But… old habits die hard, you may say." He whispers, and, this time, the Seeker moves.

To push away.

He quickly offlines his visor, not ready to watch the Flier walk away even though he expected it all along, regardless of the fact he doesn't know what he has said that would drive him away—

Warm metallic arms wrap around himself and, startled, he finds himself resting against an even warmer chassis, the soft tingling of a pulsing spark easily felt even through the thick layers of matte black metal.

When he feels wings cocoon him, Soundwave breaks.

Visor still dark, he moves a bit so that he's nestled against the Seeker's side, helm resting against the base of the neck to keep feeling the echoes of the spark's pulsing, one wing literally lying on his back plating, mindless of the contact most Fliers consider sacrilegious between mechs not connected by a Trine or mate bond, while the other hovers with a soft trembling, the air humming from its movement and the matte black mech's own engines.

He doesn't have the protocols for it, but Lightflight taught him enough that he can recognize it for what it really is.

A lullaby.

"I'm sorry." Reeds voice is soft and almost part of the soothing song itself despite the fact Soundwave knows the Seeker is not conscious of his own actions. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. I was… scared when you suddenly changed. I thought I lost you, and I couldn't deal with that."

He just tightens his grip around the Flier's middle in response, nuzzling his neck cabling, and feels relief when the other mech's helm comes to rest on his own.

And yet, there's something nagging at the back of his processor, something these last words have stirred and that doesn't seem willing to allow itself to be pushed back—

_Starscream is gone._

_Worse yet, he is lost._

_And he'll be forced to look into the familiar features, hear the familiar voice, work with the familiar man, all the while knowing his friend is no more._

_He narrows his eyes menacingly, and the pressure and warmth in them doesn't feel like tears anymore._

_Starscream is lost._

_Which means he can be found—_

_"__Skywarp said he had a message from Thundercracker, that he wanted you to take care." The soft voice makes the tanned man tense as he hesitates, dark eyes moving over the three of them. "But you've given up. You've fallen and aren't getting up, aren't even _trying_. Frag it all, Starscream, you've never bowed to anyone, you've never yielded, are you really going to let them win?"_

_"__I'm not letting anyone win." The determined Air Commander answers, but it isn't Starscream glaring back. "So get out of my way."_

_Soundwave deflates just before tensing again, and he barely registers the thrumming that's starting to fill the room as he _wills_ his fellow officer to _remember_._

_Reeds gasps and hunches into himself, hands grabbing at his temples._

_Memory after memory flows into his mind, and he keeps pushing them to the tanned man even as the Military Second starts to shake and whimper and moan in pain._

_And then, there are flashes of memories that aren't his, of a blond man lying unconscious on a bed in Med Bay, of the two Civilian officers sitting close together, eyes shining blue, as the same blond man looks down at him with sunglasses shining red—_

_The whimpering grows louder as the Air Commander tries to stumble away, hands almost white with the pressure with which he's holding his head, eyes closed tight enough that a couple of tears slip down his cheeks._

_"__S—Stop it—Please, stop—_Stop_—__"_

_Soundwave doesn't answer, doesn't even move, and Reeds tenses more forcefully, his shaking increasing, as he keeps digging for more of those memories, pain in leg and arm being pushed back as he cradles the blond man close on the floor of the _Nemesis_' bridge, standing protectively with the Civilian Second and Third in a Communications Center that doesn't belong to the Military—_

_"__En—Enough—_Enough_! Get out of my processor or I'm taking you for a free fall—!"_

The Decepticon Third's visor onlines with a start, finding worried red optics looking down at him and still curled against the matte black Seeker.

"—alright? You kind of zoned out on me, and—" He straightens so suddenly that the other jumps, startled, before his bright optics dim in confusion at the wide smile on the Cassette Carrier's faceplate. "Soundwave? You're starting to worry me."

"I think I know how to get your memories back." The Seeker stiffens, and the Communications Officer forces himself to calm down enough to explain.

Though the other beats him to it.

"Of Starscream? Of Prowl and Jazz?" He whispers, and there's nervousness as well as hope and fear, so he takes his servos in his.

"Of all of who you _are_. You will still be yourself, there's no changing that, but you'll have all the pieces that make you _yourself_." He answers as equally softly, and tries to keep his excitement at bay as the Air Commander carefully weights his words.

"Should we go to Shockwave's laboratory?" He finally asks, and, before he realizes it, Soundwave finds himself with one servo on the Seeker's neck struts, pushing the matte black helm towards his so that their foreheads are pressed together.

To his utter delight, the Flier lets out a subsonic purring sound, even though there's a confused smile on his faceplate.

"That… feels kind of nice."

He has to chuckle at that, and finds himself purring alongside his winged brother when a clawed servo reaches to massage his own neck cabling.

"Shall we?"

They separate and stand as one, and, just before opening the door, Soundwave's smile falters.

"Whatever makes you feel comfortable." Reeds answers without need for him to ask, and the Cassette Carrier gives him a last grateful smile before his battle-mask clicks in place.

The walk down the corridors to Shockwave's laboratory is one of the most pleasant experiences the Communications Officer can recall since arriving at the base, mostly because of the Seeker by his side.

Not only does he remember who he is, and Starscream's human persona isn't shunning him anymore, but also has the chance to bring the Seeker's self back.

He feels like pounding his helm against a wall for not thinking about this earlier, but, since that would be counterproductive, he just curses in the sanctity of his processor and pushes the issue away.

He's aware of the possibility now, and he's going to use this chance, so nothing else matters.

The Decepticon scientist doesn't display any kind of emotion as they walk inside his workplace, but Soundwave knows he's curious.

"Has Starscream regained his memories?"

"Negative. Suggestion: Use of telepathy." The Seeker looks at him with confusion, and only then does he realize the other's not aware of his Sigma Ability.

However, Shockwave gesturing for them to approach a chair is more than enough to focus him on the situation at hand.

If all works out, he won't need to explain himself.

Starscream, after all, already knows.

Without another word, the Flier sits down as the Cassette Carrier stands at his back, resting his hands on the sides of his helm.

The contact is not necessary, but it will be reassuring for the other.

After all, if his newly recovered memory files are accurate, the process isn't devoid of pain.

Blocking all nonessential systems, Soundwave turns his attention to the mass of energy he can feel swirling between his palms, a web brighter and far more charged than any he remembers seeing before, and so uniquely Starscream that it seems impossible the mech could think himself anyone else.

Well, that's what he's here for.

Carefully, he pushes some of his own memories of events in the Protectodome, common situations that they lived together, to slowly mold the Seeker's mind to obey his subtle commands.

"Query: Current memory."

"A Governance meeting." The Flier answers almost absentmindedly, as if lost in thought, optics offline and frame relaxed. "We were discussing the Black Day Memorial parade."

Satisfied, Soundwave presses on.

Slowly, the memories he coerces Starscream's mind to relive become those only the Seeker took part in, still in the safe realm of the Protectodome's everyday life.

And then, carefully, he presses for those of their last days, of times where they knew they weren't themselves while still not knowing who they were.

The Air Commander frowns, and it takes some more pushing for the actual memories to come up, but, slowly, they manage.

Steeling himself, the Communications Officer turns to more everyday life scenes… of the Decepticon High Command.

He goes with one of their war meetings about the location of a Space Bridge, one that was especially tame after a raid gone incredibly well, where all of them were more subdued and cooperative.

Pit, Scrapper had made some jokes that even _Megatron_ had laughed at!

The memory flow crackles, static filling it—_how is that even possible—_

Soundwave can't hold back a shriek of agony as a clawed servo pierces his chest plates, just through the seam between his chest compartment's cover and his abdominal armor, before the dactyls _curl_ inside his chassis and _tug_—

His new scream is laced with crackling static as the heavily reinforced Cybertanium slab protecting his Cassette compartment is essentially _ripped off_—

He can't really hear the shot, but he feels the heat of the energy bullet, and the weight pinning him down vanishes.

Pushing through the pain as much as he's able, he tries to focus on the shrieking and crashing filling the room, visor flickering madly with the agony making his spark blaze as he turns his helm to where Shockwave is all but lying on the trashing matte black beast howling in its Energon-thirsty crazed rampage—

The door opens with new shouting voices, a dark red shape hurling itself to help Shockwave subdue the creature, a sharp crack as one of its wing-like panels is forced out of its socket, but the monster doesn't even react, still trying to squirm free.

White and red kneel by the Communications Officer's side, sure servos pinching lines closed to stop his Energon loss as a voice curses and shouts orders as yet another mech falls down on the shrieking beast, his silver and purple detailing contrasting against his black coloring—

The trashing monster's helm is pushed down to let a syringe reach its Energon lines, and almost white red optics meet Soundwave's visor.

Even as he feels something injected in his own fuel lines, the Cassette Carrier can feel foreboding and horror fill him as he _finally_ recognizes the creature.

The mech.

"Starscream?" He whispers almost inaudibly, watching the murderous snarl soften into a confused look before almost black optics flash, horror distorting the matte black features.

And he may not be able to read the Flier's processor, but, even as stasis claims him, Soundwave knows exactly what he is thinking, for it's the same going through his own mind.

_What have I done?_

* * *

**AN:** ... Please don't kill me?

Well, it's longer than the previous one because it didn't want to end, and, oh, look! There's Motormaster in it! And Optimus! (I have the feeling I've been neglecting them...)

So... well, there you have it. I hope this solves the issue of the 'rift' between Soundwave and Reeds, and don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Prowl and Jazz *insert evil grin*

Take care, and read you all later!


	36. Times of Change

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!" Fowler doesn't even try to glare at Jazz for that, instead sighing softly as he rests a hand on Soundwave's shoulder when it looks like he's about to try to get up.

"Stay still, Ratchet said he wanted to give you a check up when you came to." He explains when that confused visor turns to him.

"Query: Reeds' status."

Both Enforcers stay silent for a second before exchanging a look.

"Let me get this straight. You wake up in Med Bay, or whatever it is called now, and the first thing you ask is about _another_'s wellbeing?" The Head of Special Operations questions, head cocked and visor pale.

"Damage: Repaired. Recovery: Integration of new gears. Damaging event: Accessible and revised. All necessary data available. Unknown: Reeds' status. Query: Satisfied. Query: Reeds' status."

"Minus that 'integration' thing, yeah, all clear." The smaller mech answers, blinking in his peculiar manner as he tries to absorb the rest.

"Reeds is already awake and repaired. Ratchet is with him now, helping clear some of the details of that 'damaging event'." The Commander-in-Chief adds, giving a quick look at the _still_ closed door to the medic's office.

He doesn't know if they're being calm and reasonable, or if the whole room is soundproofed, though he's starting to lean more towards the latter, seeing how distressed the Air Commander was when he first woke up.

"Mind telling us what happened? They just said that Shockwave was trying a new method to jog our memories and that it backfired, but they're keeping all the juicy details to themselves."

"Correction: Soundwave was trying a new method." Fowler's attention goes immediately back to the still prone dark blue mech, whose visor is now offline. "Backfire: Safety measure triggered in Reeds. Result: Berserk behavior."

"So _he_ tried to gut you?" The red visor flashes to life at those words, boring into the blue one as its owner waits for the specifics. "You looked like someone had tried to take all your inner bits _out_ of your chest. And let me add that seeing pink blood come out of you guys is something I will never become used to. Red, I can deal with. Pink? _Sparkly_ pink? Looks like candy."

And, to their utter astonishment, a soft low thrumming fills the air.

"Are you… laughing?" He asks slowly, receiving a nod from the dark blue mech. "Why does it sound like… that?"

"Cybertronian laughter." The Communications Officer answers at last, the strange sound finally stopping, though his mechanical voice trembles a bit with its echo.

"Whoa, hey! What are you…?" But Soundwave puts a hand on Jazz's shoulder to silence him and to help get to his feet, regardless of Fowler trying to push him back to the bed.

"Ratchet said to wait—!"

"Statement: Repairs complete. Objective: Within Repair Bay."

And, easily pushing away their hands—when did he get that strong? Or is it he never really tried to stop them?—the Military Third stands and starts to walk.

Towards the closed door of the Chief Medical Officer.

"Oh, no. No, no, no! The Hatchet told us to keep you in bed, and he's scary when you don't obey, so come back here!" The Head of Spec Ops shouts, hurrying to stand in front of the dark blue mech.

"Soundwave, please, be reasonable. You were badly hurt, so rest some more. Ratchet's going to clear you if you're as healthy as you say, so what are some more minutes?" Fowler tries to reason, and the Communications Officer actually stops and looks at him.

"Situation in Shockwave's laboratory: Damaging. Reeds: Possessing flawed information. Necessity: Full explanation."

"And that's just what Ratchet is doing, so lets give them some more time, okay, Sounders?"

With a flash of pale red, the dark blue mech turns to Jazz, still smiling peacefully with his hands up to show he's unarmed.

"Query: Sounders."

"It's called a nickname. You know, names friends give each other?"

"Acknowledged. Suggestion: Do not repeat."

"Aw, mech, come on, it's just an innocent—hey, no way!"

The scene, somehow, is not as humorous as it should, what with the Head of Special Operations trying to bodily push the larger Cybertronian back as the Communications Officer keeps approaching the door, one determined step after the other.

So, Fowler just lets out a tired sigh, the 'what did I do to deserve this' kind, and walks up to try and help his fellow Civilian officer by grabbing a dark blue arm.

"Soundwave, once again, please return to your bed. Even if it's just for our sakes, you're going to give us an aneurysm."

"Statement: Human malfunction not applicable to Cybertronian processor."

"Oh, for crying out loud—get back to your bed!" Jazz shouts, pushing with some more strength, which forces the Military Third to take a step back to keep his balance.

And stops.

His visor flashes a paler red once more, fixed on the door, but, unlike previous times, stays that tone, and alarms go out in Fowler's brain.

Literally, as algorithms and almost a dozen possible scenarios flash through his mind in the instant Soundwave's hands fall on Jazz's shoulders—

Yet, despite anticipating it, his only possible reaction as the smaller mech is thrown into him is press his doorwings to his back and roll with the impact, ending on all fours, and thus, able to see the Military Third rip out the entrance panel to the office, modify something, and rush through the opening door before he's even managed more than a couple steps.

Cursing loudly, he follows, Jazz close behind—and slams into a dark blue shape, the Head of Spec Ops crashing against his back, fortunately in between the sensible doorwings, but they manage not to fall.

"I thought I told you to stay out?" Ratchet's voice hisses and, slowly, they peek out from behind Soundwave to look at the angry medic sitting behind his desk.

Reeds is standing, sensor spheres shining brightly and wings hold high and wide threateningly—

Unconsciously, Fowler lowers his sensory appendages and flares them open, allowing as much of their surface as possible to be in range for an attack in a gesture of goodwill.

If it also serves to hide Jazz from sight, he's not complaining.

Reeds, however, only hitches his own wings higher, a menacing thrumming filling the room.

"Reeds: Desist." Soundwave speaks, keeping his cool and even taking a step closer to the snarling Flier.

Who, against all that aggressive display, takes a step back.

"Go away. I don't want to have to hurt anyone." Despite the threat, Fowler frowns—or whatever approximation his current body can manage—and exchanges a quick look with Jazz.

Because that sounded harsh and menacing, yet, somehow, he has the feeling it was meant more as a plea.

"Situation in Shockwave's laboratory: Accident. Fault: Quintessons."

"I didn't see any of those Quinta-whatever trying to rip you to pieces." The Air Commander hisses, taking yet another step away to maintain the distance when the Military Third keeps getting close.

"Reeds, like I said—"

"Quintessons: Installed safeguard. Soundwave: Careless. Safeguard: Activated. Reeds' behavior: Consequence of Soundwave's actions." The dark blue mech cuts the medic, who looks annoyed yet doesn't get up from his seat behind the desk.

"Oh, of course. It was all your fault, so that just makes it all fine, doesn't it?" The Miltary SIC sneers, wings vibrating to fill the room with a low thrum nothing like Soundwave's laughter. "Well, wake up! That doesn't change the fact that I'm a fucking _weapon_!"

"Negative. Weaponized: Not synonym of weapon."

"For all the good it does, they may as well be! It isn't as if this is the first time I've tried to kill one of you! What is to say it won't—"

"Oh, just mute it, you Primus-damned Seeker!" The Communications Officer shouts, voice still mechanical but crackling with anger. "Are you even listening to yourself?!"

"_You_ are the one that's not listening! If I can't keep control of myself I'm a danger to anyone involved, Quintessonian safeguards or not! Every single time I'm about to remember something I end up with blood on my hands!"

"Oh, really? I don't recall any spilled Energon from the flight practice." The Militry TIC hisses, mask clicking back to reveal a snarl. "So purge your processor of such faulty codes or—"

"I shot at you!" Reeds screeches, wings finally falling back and pressing against his back.

"Knowing you wouldn't hit us!"

"I don't remember that! I could have been trying to blast you all to pieces!"

"With _null-rays_?" And then, the dark blue mech lets out a bark of humorless laughter, a dangerous smile on his face. "You have never tried to hurt us, you were _defending yourself_."

"What difference does it make when it all ends with you injured?!"

"It makes all the difference! With knowledge of the trigger we can find other ways to help!"

"If I don't have control—"

"You don't have to be in control all the slagging time!"

"What the Pit would you know, you sparkless _drone_!"

The silence that fills the office is even more deafening than the previous shouting.

Reeds' murderous snarl vanishes with a soft gasp as his own words are finally processed, horror clearly visible on his face and pale yellowish eyes and shaking wings as he takes the last step to press himself against the wall.

"Soundwave I—I didn't mean—"

"You did." The Flier whimpers and looks away, hands covering his face as he curls into himself.

Slowly, the dark blue mech closes the distance between them and rests his hands on matte black shoulders.

"And you're right." With a shiver, Reeds looks up into the visor staring at him a deep burgundy. "I shouldn't have assumed our situations were alike."

"What…"

"What I did in the laboratory? As Cybertronian, we all have an electric field and the ability to decipher it. I'm different than the common mech in that I'm over-sensitive to such electric fields, to the point I can make sense of the impulses from the processor itself. Essentially, I can 'read minds'. I can control it now, but at the beginning… Lets just say it took time to perfect, and even now I have trouble with it some times. Nevertheless, I shouldn't have thought our situations similar without knowing the full extent of your side of the problem."

By the time he finishes, head turning away and visor going dark, Reeds has composed himself, slowly straightening until he looks his usual confident self, except for the fact he seems both embarrassed and doubtful.

Carefully, a matte black hand moves to rest on the back of Soundwave's neck, and the mech relaxes visibly before looking up.

"And I shouldn't have let my emotions get the best of me. I rant about the necessity of being in control of myself, yet I do so while letting myself get even more lost. I'm a hypocrite."

"You were always like that." The Communications Officer answers with a small smirk, and the Air Commander chuckles before resting his forehead on the dark blue mech's. "Nothing to forgive."

"Nothing to forgive." Reeds repeats softly, staying in their position for some seconds more before straightening and looking at the rest of occupants.

Mask clicking back in place, Soundwave mimics him, and his visor pales in amusement as it lands on the dumbstruck mech behind the desk.

It takes a moment, but Ratchet manages to shake himself out of his astonishment to scowl at them.

"If that's taken care of, out of my Repair Bay, all of you! Or I'll give you reasons to stay!"

As soon as a wrench appears in his hand from who knows where, Jazz grabs Fowler's arm and all but hauls him to the corridor as fast as he can, the Military officers quickly following.

When the door closes at their backs, they all burst out laughing.

* * *

"Aw, slag."

Startled by Blaster's curse, Optimus turns around, mindful of the tiny colorful strings of refracting plastic he's just finished hanging all over the Rec Room's ceiling—

And feels like cursing too when he sees Jazz, Fowler, Reeds and Soundwave in the doorway, looking at the paralyzed mechs carrying or putting up more decorations.

The Flier Cassettes land as quickly as possible, but, judging by the startled orange of their carrier's visor, he's seen the _Welcome back, Soundwave!_ of the banner they were about to hang next.

"You guys were preparing a party?" Jazz asks, the others too stunned—or suspicious, as the Air Commander is glaring in his Trinemates direction—to make a sound. "Why didn't you tell us? We could have helped!"

"Did you read the banner?" Fowler asks tiredly, pointing at where the large white sheet is crumbled under Laserbeak, Buzzsaw and Ratbat's talons.

"Actually, no. What does it say?"

"Welcome back, Soundwave." The mech himself answers, visor rebooting a couple of times before finally settling on its usual red. "Query: reasoning."

"What better reason is there than having you back, Boss?" Rumble—or Frenzy, since from where they stand it's impossible to see the blue or red stripe along their arms that allow others to distinguish them—responds with a sheepish grin, and, when Optimus' optics finally locate him—Frenzy, if the red line is any indicator—he can see he's shrugging too.

"Designation: Soundwave. Party: Unnecessary." He reprimands without really changing his voice modulation nor giving any outward signs of it, and, slightly hidden behind the Prime's own frame, Megatron snorts.

"Told you." He whispers, and the Autobot leader has to suppress the urge to turn a deadpanned look on the Decepticon.

"So you did." He answers instead, though he _does_ follow his first instinct when the other faction leader snickers almost inaudibly.

"Just two questions." Jazz calls, attracting their attention once more while Fowler gives the smaller mech a calculating look. "Why is there no music and where are you hiding the High Grade?"

Half the Autobots and all the Decepticons burst up laughing at that, and, pushing away the decorations they didn't have time to put up, they all get to where the Constructicons plus Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are starting to hand out cubes with purplish and bluish Energon while Blaster connects to the comm system of the room to let music spew out of the speakers.

"Now _that_'s a party!" The saboteur exclaims happily, dragging a resigned Fowler to get something to drink.

Soundwave, meanwhile, shakes his helm with his visor offline, Reeds patting his shoulder plate with an amused smirk on his face.

"Lord Megatron, Prime, want some of these?" A voice next to them calls, and Optimus turns around just in time for an eerily grinning Skywarp to push a cube of fuchsia Energon in his servos.

Before he can find an answer, the Seeker bounces away happily to where his Trineleader is watching Soundwave scold his creations, judging by their bowed helms, with Thundercracker following more calmly after the purple-marked Flier.

"I'm a happy drunk." Megatron lets out seemingly out of nowhere, and when the Prime turns to him, he sees his cube is already half empty. "Any warnings to give yourself?"

"I… don't think so?"

After a moment of silence, the Decepticon lets out a roaring laughter that has the whole room turn to them and make the blue and red mech wish he had Mirage's ability to make himself invisible.

"We'll have to solve that, then! I'm going to make sure tomorrow you're able to give a proper answer."

If he was human, Optimus would be pale as a ghost.

He takes a small step away when Megatron turns to Mixmaster, who is doing something with a large cube of High Grade that is making it turn a sickly green shade, but before he can make himself scarce, he almost bumps into a widely grinning Ironhide and, to his utter surprise, Shockwave, both carrying a cube of normal High Grade each.

"And where are you going?" His Weapons Specialist asks almost menacingly, but, instead of trying to reason with the dark red mech, he turns his attention to the Decepticon scientist.

"Isn't it illogical to get overcharged?"

"It is illogical to overcharge when there'll be need of a mech's full faculties the following work cycle." Shockwave answers calmly, and Optimus lets out a sigh of relief— "But it is also illogical to not know the limits of one's own frame. Taking into consideration any posts needing attention tomorrow are already covered, there's no reason not to indulge in High Grade." And, that said, the scientist clinks his cube against the one in the Prime's servos before bringing it to the intake tube opening just below his optic support and emptying it.

Almost beyond horrified, he turns to look at Ironhide, who has dealt with his own cube while Shockwave was talking, and is giving his leader a grin so wide that his faceplate should have cracked.

"I managed to teach ol' Shocks some things." He lets out with a too calm voice, before the both of them walk away with a wave.

When he manages to get his frame working again, the Autobot leader looks down at his own cube and, without further thought, drains it in two large gulps.

"Good. Now, this one." He startles at the voice, but, unlike before, the cube is being handed to him instead of pushed into his servos.

That doesn't mean he accepts it.

The poisonous green liquid Megatron is offering him doesn't reassure him any.

"Oh, come on. It's Mixmaster's special, and I can promise you I've ingested it before without any serious side-effects."

"Any _serious_ side-effects?" He repeats, mildly horrified, and, with a huff, the Decepticon leader presses the cube against his chest plates, forcing him to take it.

"Just mute it and drink." And, no sooner are the words out, the purple and silver-accented black mech drowns his cube in one go—

And starts coughing as soon as the recipient is away from his lips.

"That doesn't convince me." He deadpans, but, when the Decepticon straightens, it's with a wide grin on his faceplate.

"Does _that_?"

It takes him a second to notice the pointing dactyl, and, suppressing a shudder, he turns around—

And feels his mouth fall open in surprise, because those around the table in a drinking contest are Jazz and Blaster, along Reeds and his Trinemates, but the ones trying to out-drink one another are Fowler and Soundwave.

A nanoklik later, the Autobot SIC raises a hand to stop Skywarp from refilling his cube, and the Decepticons cheer as their Communications Officer finishes his, lowering it with a wobbly arm and a smug grin on his uncovered faceplate.

A tug on his arm makes him look back at Megatron, whose smile is smaller and more calming than one would expect from the ruthless leader of the Decepticons, before he points one black dactyl to where Shockwave and Ironhide are sitting with the Aerialbots and the Stunticons, all of them gesturing wildly for them to approach, pointing at two empty seats next to the temporary Seconds in Command.

On the table are quite a lot of flasks full to the brim with the green High Grade.

With one last look at where the drinking contest has now turned to Jazz and Thundercracker, Optimus lets a small smile appear on his faceplate with a resigned sigh.

"Very well. But I'll let you know I'm not exactly pleasant when I have to deal with processor-aches." He relents at last, allowing Megatron to softly push him to the table.

"We'll deal with that in the morning." The Decepticon leader chuckles, cradling his empty cube.

And, in a 'why the Pit not' momentary decision, the Prime pulls his own cube to his lips and drains it.

Megatron has to literally carry him the last steps to the table as he almost coughs his fuel tanks out through his intake tube, but he immediately joins the raucous laughter as soon as he's sitting down.

_Well, this might be fun after all…_

* * *

His processor is pounding and some of his tensile cables are cramped because of spending a lot of time in a weird position, but that isn't what has woken him up.

Battle protocols up and running even before his targeting systems can come online, he can only recognize enemies all around him, the sounds filling his audials distorted and sounding too much like pained moans and—oh, Pit, is it a battlefield? Was he knocked into stasis in the middle of a slagging _battle_?

He needs to get away, before the other side comes to rescue their wounded and pick up the deactivated, he needs to get back to his own, to—to—to whoever he's aligned with, and why won't his processor reboot properly so that he can access his slagging databanks?!

The being under him shudders, and he softens the tight grip he keeps on the other so as to not increase the damage, but doesn't release it, no way, they're not going to take them apart, there's nothing that would—

And there it is again, the wrongness, the foul enemy he can't even touch, can't even _see_, least of all fight and—hands on his shoulder plates, tugging him away from the other and the rasp of a damaged voice box and shuddery moans and the grip on his frame tightens, straining to break his hold of the damaged one, but he can't, he won't, he—_he can't hold it anymore, and the warm frame is pulled away, Energon on his chest plate and his arms and he barely stops himself from howling from the helplessness he's feeling, but bright ruby optics keep him immobile and silent, even as they grow smaller—_

_And they finally know what the vertical operation table just outside their cell is for, as the other is forcefully strapped to it, their captors not even caring about the groaning of already ripped metal as the restraints bend it inwards, more sparkly pink liquid dripping from the reopened wounds._

**_Stay strong. It'll be over soon._**

_Yes, it will. And once it is, he can take care of the other, and they can keep planning how to escape their prison and extinguish as many of their captors as possible in one go._

_That possibility vanishes as soon as their torturer steps inside, for this time it's not their usual one, just as it's not the normal treatment of taking them to their laboratories what is happening now._

_It's different._

_New._

_It's going to be their end._

**_Hold on! I know you can!_**

_He grabs those words almost physically and clings to them with all his spark to suppress the urge to cower in the farthest corner of their cell when the large being goes past it and towards the table, a laughing face turning to stare at where he's still sitting against the wall._

_He can't keep the shudder inside, nor stop his legs from pressing against his chest plate in a vague effort of protecting himself._

_Their torturer laughs, and he shivers again._

_But the one strapped to the table snarls—and spits a clog a brownish Energon that slams on their captor's raging face._

_"You dare, you lowly drone!" It shrieks with multiple voices, still laughing in his direction even as it snarls at the other prisoner's smug grin. "You shall suffer even more for this."_

_"As if. I won't break for a real Cybertronian, so what makes you think a tin can such as yourself will manage it?" And the mocking look turns bitter as their torturer laughs at the arrogant immobile being._

_"You were made to obey, slave. And to that you will return."_

**_I need you to do something._**

**_What…?_**

**_I need you to do something!_**

**_What is it? I can't… I can't help from here!_**

**_You're going to help if you manage this. So, stay strong._**

**_I… Alright. What can I do?_**

_"Oh, I'm shaking so hard in fear that my armor is falling off. Release me and you'll see it, piece by piece clattering to the ground." The captive deadpans, and laughter turns to wrath even as the frowning face staring at him cracks into a large smile._

**_While I distract them—_**

**_What?! No!_**

_"Your voice box would have been the first thing to go, but I will relish your screams." Their captor returns, laughing at the one strapped on the table while the bitter face is once more starting at him through the invisible electrified force-field of their prison._

**_While I _****distract****_ them, I need you to make up some kind of trigger._**

**_A… trigger? For what?_**

**_For your memories! Our time's run out. We won't be able to get out of here unless we have inside help—_**

**_But there's no one who would do it, so we _****need****_ to create an inside agent._**

**_I knew there was a reason you—_**

_The shriek crackles with the same static as the unvoiced words, and he flinches, though doesn't look away from where their captor has ripped off the immobile prisoner's chest plate._

_"Such _primitive_ bodies! Our creations were superior in every sense, yet you lower yourself to being tools of those disgusting maggots! Well, one more reason to _recover_ our wayward slaves."_

_"Ah, but… you _are_ the inferior ones… for you must not have any_…_ kind of reflective surface if you are… calling other races… 'maggots'." The grin on the prisoner's faceplate is so mocking that laughter turns to the face of Death itself, rage freezing him to the wall he's pressed against despite his urge to plea for the other's well-being._

**_Don't you _****dare****_ make a sound! You need to work on the trigger!_**

**_And how the Pit should I make it?!_**

**_You're the expert!_**

_Another shriek shakes the air as more armor is ripped off, the macabre procedure continuing to the point there's barely more than the protoformal circuitry attached to the struts, the abused voice box having shut down halfway through the process, though the screams have not gone silent._

_He forces himself to watch, to not move again, to hide his shivering and his horror—_

_And to devise a viral programming to infect himself with, one that would reboot his whole processor bit by bit and erase any modifications implanted by external sources._

_The virus itself is simple, but the challenge lies in how to hide it from their captors._

_Because, if what has been said is true, they will get in _his_ processor—_

**_Stay strong! Your processor is your best weapon, and they don't know about it. You can do this!_**

_Once more, he clings to the words like a depleted mech to the last of their Energon, and focuses once more on the virus—_

_And the murderous face is staring down at him as their captor analyzes the strapped mech with something akin to doubt._

_He can't think, he can't move, he can barely let his spark pulse as those deep space black optics look at him, and he can feel his terror sky-rocket—_

**_I'm here. I'm here. They won't get us, they won't break us. They can't _****stop you****_._**

_Still staring at Death itself, he ponders his next step._

_Eventually, they will get them. Eventually, they will force them to bow. But they can't stop them. Not if, when they think they've managed to subdue them, they stand up again._

_"Curious. Perhaps we should look deeper."_

_And metal shrieks as the spark chamber's cover is pierced and ripped off—_

_Pale, too pale, too pale blue—_

**_Concentrate!_**

_Quarantine and slip into the recharge protocols, the protective coding set to erode slowly with the use of the lines it is hidden amidst, the virus in temporary inactivity until its casing is gone—_

_Tools lift as the face of Death gives way to one frowning down at him, their captor's laughter growing stronger as panic and horror distort what little he can see of his fellow prisoner—_

_"This should be _interesting_…"_

_The unknown item in their torturer's hold flashes to life with the glow of Energon before disappearing between its handler's body and the one strapped on the table—_

_"No no no nononononono—" The voice grows louder, crackling wildly from being forced through an abused voice box—_

_Too pale blue light flickers and flashes and dims and crackles and the scream grows louder and far more agonizing than any being can be responsible for before the voice box explodes in a flash of sparks and electric bolts, the torturer moving away until the sputtering stops, just to grab another tool and step closer again, another he hasn't seen enter joining the carnage while carrying some cabling—_

_The integration of the virus-case pings its completion, and he jumps to his pedes and runs to the force-field as fast as he can, for he can no longer ignore what they are doing, they don't listen no matter how much he screams and begs and shakes, for the strapped one's voice box is no longer functional, so he starts shouting for his companion, but it's of no use—_

_Another tiny explosion, another flare of electricity, and the Energon that until then just dripped from open wounds starts to boil out of the prisoner's lines, splashing everything to the point it's covering the body, the floor, the tools, and the wailing and screaming never stop, just grow weaker, and he only shouts louder in response, begging the torturers to stop and willing the other to stay strong, just as he himself had been doing—_

_A stronger flare and the voice stops, their captors finally stepping away so that the bulky guardians can release the immobile frame, a too small pure white spark sputtering in its Energon-stained chamber, ripped open for all to see, and—_

_He shrieks as electricity courses through his wires, forcing him to the ground and unable to stop twitching as the force-field vanishes and a guard kicks him to the back of the cell for the other to push his fellow prisoner in, unable to speak, not strong enough for anything, but he still manages to meet his optics, now pinpricks of white nestled in crystal-less sockets in a sea of dead gray, but he manages to stand long enough for him to get to his pedes and rush to his side—_

_A crackling sob escapes his voice box as he grabs him and they slid to the floor, too weak to stay upright, but not defeated, never broken, even if they are going to reprogram them into mere drones, slaves to those disgusting masses of psychopathic canned meat, for he has just deleted something from his databanks that has to be important, for he would still keep the records otherwise, but no matter, because whatever it is, it will help them be free again—_

_The spark sputters, and, even as he cradles the frame closer, memories pop up of better times, of sitting in a soothing dark room while monitoring a whole race's communications, of smaller beings happily singing along one of the melodies he tuned in from those alien comms, of two others ceasing their bickering to listen to the younger ones' antics—_

_And he finds himself willing the other to remember, to join him in that better time, to forget the pain, so, despite his voice box's protests and his crackling voice, he sings along the small ones of his memories, and his fellow prisoner chuckles and joins him with a voiceless voice—_

_The servos on his sides tighten their grip and push, strength the other should not have left forcing them apart, and he fin_ds himself looking into a deadly worried matte black faceplate with pale amber optics searching his visor.

And only then, for the first time since he got out of recharge, does Soundwave realize he's sitting on the floor of a party-adorned Rec Room with almost all of the Autobots and Decepticons in the Resistance base looking at him in horrified disbelief as he clings to Starscream as tightly as he did—

"Sorry." His voice is chocked and pained and broken, and his visor goes offline as he presses himself tighter against the Seeker's very much alive chassis, spark pulsing strong even through the layers of untouched metal as charged Energon courses through lines and softly warms armor plates and sustains healthy color nanites. "Sorry sorry sorry…" His whimpering becomes lower and harder to hear, until his voice box stops as it reaches pitches even it is unable to produce.

But Soundwave continues to apologize, because his virus worked in the end, and they managed to get free of the Quintessons, but he couldn't help the other in that cell, and as much as that scarred and hurt him, he knows it will be impossibly worse for the one who suffered it.

"Please don't come back… Starscream please don't come back…"

* * *

**AN:** And _finally_ we get to the explanation of what happened in the very first chapter of the fic, of why Soundwave suddenly woke up one day remembering his real name. Took long enough...

By the way, there are some lines in there that should be recognizable. Guess from where?

Happy Halloween!

**Angel Heart:** To your review to Chapter 29 (Synchronization): I'm glad you liked the interaction between Reeds/Starscream and Thundercracker. I felt it had been long coming, and I couldn't leave it out. And yes, Jazz is great, no matter how little part he has in any chapter XD

I was a bit worried about the camera bit with Prowl, but I'm happy you thought it fit. I thought it may have sounded to OOC for him, but then, my reasoning was that Jazz wanted him to participate in some way, and if it was by holding the camera, so be it (and who can deny Jazz anything? ;P).

And yes, Jazz's answer to Soundwave stating his designation was a reference to James Bond (forgot to put that in the AN, going to correct it now...), so great job spotting that! (I thought it was pretty obvious, but only you mentioned it... guess the rest were too shocked by the fact Soundwave was back XP). And yes again, I wanted to make it sound like a joke at first, glad that worked too. *insert evil grin*

I'm going to tell you the truth. When I first read that the 'game of tag' was cute because 'can you imagine Prowl and Starscream playing around like they were younglings?' my first thought was 'what's the difference?' That's because in my HC, as I've hinted at before, a newly created mech is one that has data but not experience, kind of like a recently awakened amnesiac, that knows some things (speech, walk, use of the toilet, previous acquired knowledge) but no people or is lacking some experience. Then, though, I tried to imagine them as the most widely spread version of 'younglings' in the fandom, the one where they are like human children in terms of size and all that jazz (no pun intended)... and I found myself squealing. So, yes, I can see why so many people thought they were 'cute'. Thanks for explaining!

To your review to Chapter 30 (Bridging the Gap): Couldn't not write smug Megatron, I just _physically couldn't_. Curse him, he always gets away with what he wants. *pout* And same for the Stunticons. Is there any other way to write them?

I'm happy Reeds' development and thought processes made sense, it's hard sometimes to find a point between 'Starscream's way of thought' and 'explain things so that they can be understood by _everyone_, damn it!'. I'm also glad my explanation for Soundwave being how he is also fits, and that my headcannon (mixing 'verses and OCs included) doesn't throw things out too much.

'The best type of the worst cliff hanger', I love that sentence XD

I'm happy that chapter wasn't too... I don't know, overwhelming? Confusing? There was so much going on that I almost cut it in two, but then it wouldn't have had the same kind of impact, so I left it as it was. Glad I did.

A bit more of Prowl and Jazz here, but Soundwave wasn't done yet, and Optimus and Megatron wanted some spotlight too... (how come what were 5-6 chapters in my mind have become 13 and counting? And there are still so many more waiting to be written... is this ever going to end?!). Oh, well, lets see what next chapter brings up... (lets hope they decide to collaborate...)


	37. Shedding Light

At the beginning, Optimus thought he was still overcharged.

Then, he thought it was some kind of flux.

Now, as he can do nothing more than stare horrified at the Decepticon Communications Officer burying his faceplate against an equally terrified Air Commander's chest plates, he has to accept the truth.

It happened.

The conversation, the voices, the shrieking and screaming coming out of Soundwave's speakers, is a memory.

Just like Jazz's breakdown when they shared some memories to convince them of their true natures.

Only, this time, there was more than Quintessons in it.

As far as he remembers nothing happened during the night, minus that unbalanced attempt of a fist fight between Slingshot and Drag Strip that ended with both of them in a giggling pile on the floor.

It was _fun_.

And relaxing, and enjoyable, and Optimus would never admit it—or, well, he'll probably end telling Ironhide, Ratchet and Megatron—but he wouldn't mind a repeat, as long as he can just lay down in silence to let his processor sort the effects of the overcharging in the morning.

Which is what he was doing, the humming of systems in recharge from the mechs slumped nearby or against him the only noise, almost allowing himself to accompany them once more, before a high-pitched beep pierced his processor.

His groaning mingled with that of the rest of the room's occupants, and, against his will, the Prime pushed Ironhide off of him and sat up, Megatron's servo stabilizing him when he sagged in place.

And then, while they were trying to figure out what was going on, was when they heard the clangs and the groaning of metal being forced to bend, and battle protocols slammed online with enough strength that Optimus almost punched the Decepticon leader on the faceplates when they both stood quick as lightning.

When they located the noise, they finally managed to subdue the coding that was making them wish they had weapons at hand.

Reeds was clearly scared and confused, lying against a wall where he had probably simply crashed into recharge last night, and keeping Soundwave at arms' length.

But it was the Communications Officer who attracted their attention, for it was his speakers that the sounds and eerily echo-less known voices were coming through, soon followed by others also known but that sounded as if from a big room instead of from the void itself.

And slowly, as they heard more, things started clicking in place.

Then, the shrieking began, and Optimus found himself trembling so badly against Megatron that it felt as if his whole armor was going to fall off.

At least with Jazz's flashback they had been spared the explosions and ripping of metal.

Not for the first time, the Prime found himself agreeing with the human saying that imagination is worse than reality.

And then, it finally, mercifully, stopped, and Soundwave had embraced Reeds as tightly as if he was the only existing mech in the universe.

The other had returned the gesture, as horrified as the rest, but quickly pulled the other away as ghostly echoes of voices and melodies grew stronger, worried about whatever was going to happen next.

Fortunately, the Cassette Carrier's reaction had been to online his visor.

However, that hadn't stopped him from dissolving into a sobbing mass once more, though, thankfully, there were no more echoes of the past.

That doesn't mean Optimus has any idea about what to do now, still shaking fearfully next to his petrified Decepticon counterpart.

"Primus…" Megatron whispers, soft clinking of armor sounding loud as he shifts in place, unsure of what to do. "So that's how they…"

"Soundwave, at least." The Prime whispers, the Decepticon leader's recovery aiding his own.

And yet, he doesn't know what to do.

Is there _anything_ he can do?

"Come back? Come back from where?" Reeds voice is soft, but in the horrified silence it's easy to hear, optics darker in a small frown as he tries to push the dark blue mech off. "Soundwave? What do you mean, 'don't come back'?" The Communications Officer's grip visibly tightens, his sobbing going silent. "Oh, no, don't you dare!" And, with a stronger pull, the Air Commander finally manages to get the other Decepticon at arms' length. "Now, answer." The Third in Command just looks down, frame trembling harshly. "Oh, come on. Look at me. Look at me I said!" With a shake, the pale red visor meets dark red optics. "What do you see?"

"Reeds…"

"Wrong. Try again."

Soundwave's shaking increases.

"Starscream?"

"_Wrong_. Come on, you're better than that!"

"I… I don't…"

With an irritated noise, Reeds lets go of one of the Communications Officer's shoulder plates to have his servo hover over one side of his faceplate—

The _scarred_ half of his faceplate.

Soundwave's visor pales further.

"These. Know what these are?"

"Scars?"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit!" And Optimus winces, along the rest of the room, because the pitch the Air Commander's voice got to is almost painful. "What are _these_?!"

"A… promise." The dark blue mech's on the other servo, is so low and thin that they barely hear it.

"To?"

"To… protect… That… That no price is too high as long as…" And just as it was gaining strength, Soundwave's voice trembles again.

"Go on. Finish it."

"As long as those that matter are safe." The Decepticon TIC whispers, trembling softening, but not disappearing.

"I didn't make that promise the day I got these, you know." The Air Commander's voice is once more lower, a soft rumbling, but as sharp as before. "And perhaps I don't remember, but I'm sure I didn't make it the day I woke up thinking of myself as Steve Reeds, either."

The Communications Officer's visor flashes in surprise.

"But…"

"I obviously cared enough to offer myself as bait."

"Because I had the ability to…" But Reeds shaking his helm in a negative silences the dark blue mech, uncaring about the fact he sounded stronger once more.

"You don't get it, do you? Remember Grant? The one that couldn't touch a computer without crashing it unless it was inside a Cybertronian?" There's an indignant yelp from the shape sprawled behind the Air Commander, but the blue-striped Seeker sitting next to it silences it with a kick. "I would have done the same even if it had been him there."

Soundwave's visor pales further, but he just starts to shake his helm, unwilling to accept such words.

And, cruel as it may sound, Optimus agrees with the Cassette Carrier, because Reeds may be willing to sacrifice himself like that, but Starscream…

"He would have." The Communications Officer freezes, but doesn't look away from the scarred Seeker. "He acted all high and mighty, but if something like that ever happened… well, you saw what he did to the drones during the first attack." Thundercracker adds, shrugging almost nonchalantly, but, even sitting against the wall as he is, his wings obviously press further against his back.

Dread and realization settle on the Prime's spark as he remembers that certain memory Mirage showed them, of Skywarp teleporting in the midst of the drones to try and recover Megatron, being shot down—and Starscream barging into the sea of black frames in a berserker rage, invulnerable to the shots that failed to stop him from ripping the drones to pieces.

"But… me?" Soundwave asks softly, voice trembling and higher pitched than usual, and Reeds gives him a small smile.

"Of course, you idiot. You may be an insufferable frozen-hearted bastard, but you're _my_ insufferable frozen-hearted bastard." And the servo still on the Cassette Carrier's shoulder slips away as the dark blue mech embraces the Seeker once again. "Hey, calm down. You saved us, we're no longer in the hands of those creatures. And if they decide to come back, Jazz and Fowler can blast them off again." The former Civilian officers snort, sitting up next to them.

"Unless those things can revive themselves, no one's coming back." The saboteur drawls, resting back on his servos.

And, as he watches Soundwave stop shaking, helm lifting to let Reeds' forehead rest against his own with a cocky smirk, Optimus realizes he never needed to do anything in the first place.

"Besides, we have Reeds. Give him one more try, and he'll be flying as if he never landed in the first place." Skywarp adds from his sprawled position, awkwardly patting his Trineleader's back. "Unless he's as overcharged as I am." He adds in a drunken giggle, and the other two Seeker's exchange fond looks. "Hey, TC, hey. Have you ever seen Screamer fly overcharged? Oh, I wanna see that…"

"Whatever you say, Warp." The blue-marked Flier answer with a silent chuckle making his frame tremble, the Air Commander grimacing at the nickname.

As grumbling from the rest of the room's occupants starts to fill the silence, the Prime allows himself to relax and sit in the bench they—he thinks—were occupying last night, Megatron mimicking him with a chuckle as he watches two of his Elite Fliers poke at the third, uncoordinated servos trying to slap them away.

Soundwave, still embracing Reeds, seems as relaxed as he's going to be with the memory they heard still fresh in his mind, but, as long as he's not panicking, it's fine by Optimus.

Judging by how calm his Decepticon counterpart is, the idea extends to the silver and purple-marked mech, too.

As if nothing happened in the first place, Jazz starts talking, drawing both the Cassette Carrier and the Commander-in-Chief's attention, amusement appearing on their faceplates as the smaller mech lets his mischievous grin grow.

From where they are sitting, the red and blue mech can't hear them, least of all through the grumbling of post-overcharge Cybertronian having been forced to reboot before their systems could deal with the mess the excess of High Grade racked on their frames.

But, despite his processor-ache and the world tilting slightly to the right, Optimus doesn't feel more than relief.

And, oh, look at that, Megatron has made the world move to its rightful angle again by pushing the Prime to the side a bit.

"You're good." He finds himself saying, a small smile on his faceplate, and feels amused red optics land on him.

"And you're still overcharged."

"Nah." But the Decepticon snickers, and why would he—oh, right, he hasn't said 'nah' since he went to that bar with Dion Primus knows how many million vorns ago.

"Yeah."

Both of them laugh softly at that, leaning against each other as the world tilts again, systems winding down and going offline now that the menace is gone, bringing back the post-overcharge error list and the haziness of self-repair working to solve it.

Which is why they both yelp and cover their audio receptors when a high-pitched beep cuts through the slightly annoying noise of the room.

Battle protocols and targeting systems clearing his sensors as soon as they slam online, Optimus quickly scans the room, easily locating the source of the problem as he sees Soundwave once more being held at arms' length by Reeds, though this time, his pale visor is easily focused on the Seeker's faceplate as trembling servos roam all over the Flier's frame—

"Soundwave, Soundwave, calm down!" The Air Commander orders, voice too high in pitch for the Autobot's comfort, but it serves to make the Communications Officer freeze. "It's alright, calm down."

"It's _not_ alright!" The dark blue mech shouts back, easily swatting away the servos on his shoulders as he once more resumes his examination of the matte black frame.

"It _is_! Now stop that!" Reeds scowls, catching the Cassette Carrier's servos with a scowl. "Come on, this is nothing new, and you know that!"

"Nothing new? _Nothing_—" But whatever the enraged response was going to be, it's cut short as realization makes his visor flash. "This… This…"

"Yes. Now, will you _stop_ pawing at me?" The Seeker hisses, obviously trying to keep calm, as he releases the dark blue mech when he nods.

When the Communications Officer stays in place, still too stunned by whatever he's remembered to move, the Air Commander nods, almost to himself, and stands up.

And almost ends up on the ground again as his knees buckle, only Thundercracker's quick response allowing him to stay upright.

Upright and with a grimace of pain on his faceplate as a servo is shakily pressed against his chest plate, just over—

"Starscream!" Soundwave shouts, getting to his feet faster than the Prime can follow, Skywarp, despite his previous lack of coordination, also up and tense—

And the matte black Seeker just waves them off with annoyance, getting back to his pedes and shrugging Thundercracker's arm off.

"Enough, all of you! There's no need for such a fuss." The Decepticon SIC sneers, pushing past his Trinemates easily, even if the servo against his chest plate, over his _spark chamber_, stays in place.

When the Communications Officer tries to follow, the purple-marked Seeker stops him.

"What are you—"

"Hey, he said he's fine, so just let him go, alright?" The Flier cuts in nonchalantly, even if the blue-stripped winged mech follows after their leader, uncaring about the curious looks they receive.

"But—"

"He's a big boy, let him deal with his things."

The door closes without a sound.

Soundwave falls to his knees, startling Skywarp, before he looks down at his servos in despair.

"Huh… He's going to be back to his grumpy self in no time, you'll see." The Seeker adds uncomfortably, obviously not knowing how to deal with the situation at hand. "You know how it goes, you've read his file. Bit of discomfort, swallow a pill, and good as new!"

"Pill? Can Cybertronian swallow pills?" Jazz asks as Fowler drapes an arm around the Communications Officer's shoulders, drawing him close.

Skywarp's mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

"He's done it before, so mute it! Besides, the Hatchet knows how to deal with him." He answers at last, snarling, as he crosses his arms against his chest plate.

"What is wrong with my Second."

Annoyed, the purple-marked Seeker turns around—

And curls into himself with pale optics as he sees Megatron standing tall in front of him.

"Huh… just… just a tiny imbalance from High Grade consumption… easy fix." He manages with a nervous smile, taking a step away as the Prime joins the Decepticon leader.

"My fault." All optics go down to Soundwave, whose servos are now clenched in either anger or despair. "They were… and I…"

"You did what you had to." The Doorwinger whispers, one of his own silvery white servos taking a dark blue one.

"Besides, you know Reeds. Best Air Commander and Tetrajet pilot ever, and when has something tiny like broken bones stopped him? If he's been dealing with his drinking problems since ever, no need to start worrying now." Jazz adds, kneeling down on the Cassette Carrier's other side and grabbing the free servo.

"It hasn't been since _ever_…"

"For Steve Reeds? It has. And yet, he's still the best. Even Acid Storm said so, remember?" At the Head of Special Operations' words, Soundwave seems to relax. "Now, how about we go have a shower and grab some breakfast? Thundercracker said you could teach me how to use my sonics, and I want to get started as soon as possible!"

Both the Military Third and the Civilian Second chuckle at the enthusiasm in Jazz's voice.

"Suggestion: Release unit Soundwave." Their smiles turn almost blinding at that, and, soon enough, the three of them are back on their feet.

After saying their farewells, they walk away, the saboteur's happy chatter muffled as soon as the door swishes closed.

Skywarp's the next to go, muttering about his 'nice warm berth' as he does, and, calmly, the Rec Room empties.

Until only Optimus, Ironhide, Shockwave and Megatron remain.

"You said everything was as it should." The Decepticon leader speaks calmly, but the threat is clear in his voice as he turns to his temporary Second.

The scientist doesn't even reboot his optic.

"Standard data has staid unchanged except for the expected modification of certain parameters."

"Expected?"

"The new frames have different requirements. The previous functioning processes would be too little or too much, so they have been rearranged."

"And that explains my Air Commander suffering 'tiny imbalances from High Grade consumption' how?" And Megatron is openly growling now, so the Prime rests a servo on his arm, and feels him relax.

"Unknown. More data necessary. However, Ratchet seems to be aware of the situation and capable of dealing with it. I will meet with him to discuss this new development after he is finished with Reeds." Shockwave answers without worry, and, after a nod from his leader, both him and Ironhide walk out the room.

"Tiny imbalance my aft." The Decepticon growls, but his frame deflates visibly.

"How about we go through the wash-racks, get some Low Grade and visit Ratchet to hear what he has to say?"

For a moment, Megatron stays silent.

And then, he lets out a mechanical hiss of his joints as he relaxes even further.

"That sounds nice." Yet he doesn't sound too convinced.

"Or we could go to the Repair Bay now, and deal with the rest afterwards." He adds innocently, and the silver and purple-marked mech chuckles.

"That sounds even better."

Without exchanging further words, they start walking, side by side, and as comfortable with the other's presence as ever, regardless of the many confrontations they are aware of now that they're no longer in the Protectodome.

No matter. Trust triumphs over past grudges.

Even if, Optimus knows, one day they will have to deal with them.

_Today is not that day._

The Repair Bay doors open swiftly and without sound, but the two leaders are not deceived, for the first thing they see is Thundercracker, wings held high, hissing down at a snarling Ratchet.

"What is going on here?!" Megatron roars, walking through the doors like he owns the place.

The Seeker immediately whirls around, wings pressed against his back, and the Medic scowls, subspacing the wrench in his servo.

"TC thinks that shouting at the doctor will make him think faster." A dry and _not_ amused voice answers instead, and all optics go to where Reeds in sitting against the headrest of a berth, one leg extended in front of his while the other is bent at the knee.

The servo pressed against his chest plate is still in place.

"Well?"

The other two mechs exchange a look before the Flier takes another step back, lowering his helm.

"I don't know how to solve this." Ratchet spits, and Optimus quickly rests a servo on Megatron's arm, just in case.

"What?" The Decepticon leader hisses instead, tense but not moving, as if the Prime had him completely restrained.

"I've dealt with Reeds' arrhythmias before, but I've always used human medicine—or whatever the Quintessons made us believe they were. But I don't know how to apply it to a mech that is, otherwise, healthy. And so far, his spark hasn't done more than sputter a bit, nowhere close to dangerous zones. His frame is undamaged, his energy levels are high, his spark is strong, even with those flickers… there's nothing wrong with him!"

"But you used to do something! He had those pills—"

"I _know that_!" The Medic hisses, cutting the Seeker with the menacing glow of his deep blue optics. "Do you think I _enjoy_ seeing him in pain? I _know_ there was something to stabilize the fluctuations, but I _don't know what it is_! So, mute it and let me try to see if I may work out something _else_!"

"Ratchet, can you do it?" Optimus asks calmly and, with a low hissing as his joints relax, the white and red mech nods.

"It may take a bit, and I need to keep a monitor on Reeds, just in case something happens—and don't give me that look, I know nothing's happened before—but yes. It will most likely not be the same as whatever I gave him back in the Protectodome, but I can solve it." He answers, keeping his glare on the blue-stripped mech even though he hasn't tried so much as opening his mouth.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Megatron hisses, and the Medic starts moving.

"Joy." The Air Commander scoffs, still sitting as relaxed as before, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong.

"Mute it, and take that servo off. I need your chest plates open."

"Not. Happening." The Seeker snarls, curling a bit into himself as the Medic stops by his side with a small box with a screen and two jacks.

"Doctor's orders."

"I don't think he—"

"You mute it, Thundercracker, or I'm offlining your voice box." The Military Second just glares harder, but the Chief Medical Officer stays firm. "You want to be in pain until whatever is wrong with you decides to miraculously solve itself?"

"I'm not baring my spark to you, Senatorial pet." The matte black mech spits, sensor spheres lighting as wings slowly lift.

"Starscream?" The Medic asks, startled, as he takes a step back.

"No, the slagging _Prime_, who else, you—" But his words get cut as he curls sharply into himself, whimpering in pain. "Shepherd, damn you to the deepest pit of Hell, do _something_."

"What the Pit is going on?" Megatron whispers, as surprised by the shifting personalities as the other three.

Ratchet is the first to break out of his surprise, and immediately pulls out a jack from a forearm compartment and slams it into the port at the back of the Seeker's neck.

After a couple of nanokliks, the mech goes limp in his hold, and, with Thundercracker's help, he lies him down properly in the berth.

Matte black chest plates open without a sound, revealing an equally colored sphere of petal-like structures hiding the spark.

As soon as it comes into view, Ratchet puts the jacks in his hands in their places at the ports over and below the spark chamber.

The monitor immediately comes to life, displaying three flat lines.

"Well?"

"I pre-downloaded Starscream's normal stats from Shockwave's checks, so it will only let us know if there's some change." The Medic explains, his own chord already disconnected and back in his forearm. "The topmost line monitors total energy output, the middle one checks pulse frequency, and the bottom one is for the Energon levels in the chamber. So far, so—"

A shrill beep cuts the white and red mech's explanation, the top line spiking hard upwards, while the one at the bottom mirrors it, the spike going down.

And then, they still once more.

"What was _that_?" Optimus whispers, gaze going from the stasis-locked mech on the berth to the machine and, finally, to the Chief Medical Officer.

"Curious. The energy levels are stable." The Medic muses out loud, and Megatron growls softly to make him focus on the others. "The spark has taken in a lot of energy all of a sudden, yet the overall readings stay stable. So, and taking into account we haven't seen that energy be released, where has it gone?" He questions, once more to himself, as he becomes lost in the situation at hand once more.

Not sparing them even a glance, the Medic rushes to some cabinets filled with chemicals, all the while muttering to himself.

The Decepticon leader looks at the active Seeker, who is obviously forcing himself to stay away from the berth so as to not bother the white and red mech.

"Has this happened before?" Megatron asks softly, and not looking away from the prone Flier, Thundercracker nods.

"But he had those pills… one of them helped the pangs go away in a couple of minutes. He always had some on him, just in case…"

"Well, we didn't find anything when we first brought them in." Ratchet grumbles from where he's looking through something on a computer. "How the Pit am I supposed to stabilize a spark that's already stable?"

Another beep, the exact same reaction from the lines onscreen, and absolutely no movement from the mech on the berth.

"He doesn't seem to be in pain." Megatron whispers, but a growl makes them turn to the approaching Medic, blue optics on the machine.

"Who knows if he's feeling it now. I would say he's not, being in stasis-lock, but taking into account it's his _spark_ that's acting up…"

"But there's a possibility he's not?" Thundercracker asks softly, and Ratchet sighs angrily.

"Yes, there is. And right now, I don't know what else do, so that's how he'll stay." He answers grumpily. "Off with you all, I'm busy. I'll call if something changes."

Not knowing what else do, the three mechs step out of the Repair Bay, leaving Medic and patient alone.

"He'll be fine." The Seeker lets out calmly, though far too tense. "No matter what he calls himself now, he's still Starscream."

"That he is." Megatron answers softly, putting a servo on the Flier's shoulder plate and slowly guiding him away. "That he is."

"Thundercracker!" All of them jump at the sudden shout, whirling around to see Ratchet's helm poking out of the Repair Bay's doorway. "Does this happen _every single time_ after he overcharges?"

"Y-Yes. Why—?"

"I think I know what's wrong with him." And, with those last words, the Medic vanishes back inside.

Too fast for them to react, the Seeker follows.

"—spark is tricked into thinking there's a lack of High Grade, that's why it keeps taking in more Energon, but the energy levels stay stable because it burns through the Energon as fast as it takes it in. It thinks there's an abundance of High Grade, that's why it's trying to work at a higher level than it can in normal circumstances. It must have burnt through the extra High Grade too quickly to realize there isn't more being ingested." The white and red mech explains, hooking the immobile Seeker to an Energon drip. "That pill I used to give him must have been some kind of powdered Energon crystals, so that there was enough extra Energon available for the spark to burn before it _finally_ realized there was no more High Grade incoming. It's a retarded energy conversion, most likely, an overactive halo. But how the Pit has such a problem not been solved in all this time… There's supposed to be enough copies of the energy regulation coding that no such problems should exist!"

"And yet, it happened. How could it be?" Megatron asks, relaxing the longer the monitor lines stay still.

"Usually, such things happen after a newspark's transfer. Always, when there are twins. It's a consequence of too much coding being given to the newspark, so it takes the carrier spark some time to get the necessary number of copies back. But it solves itself in a matter of _orns_. Yet, you say it's been going on since you met Reeds…" Thundercracker looks even more worried than before, but only nods in answer. "Either he has too little copies, and it's taking a lot longer to get the necessary number… Or, most likely, he has no copies at all."

"But—"

"Not even creation would leave a mech with no copies of the energy regulation code. If what I fear is true… it may very well mean that someone _took them_."

The silence that fills the Repair Bay is ominous, and it's too easy to hear Megatron's gears grinding as he tries to keep his rage at bay.

"Soundwave said…"

"The Quintessons. To keep him controlled, most likely. Starscream was always a lively one." The Decepticon leader growls, servos tightly clenched to the point Optimus can hear the metal bend. "Can you solve this?"

"Easily. If it's true that the coding is missing, the spark should accept some copies without trouble. I'll wait for Shockwave, though. If I'm right, this would be enough, but I'd rather be sure." The Medic answers, gesturing to the drip. "You can all go now, I'll keep an optic on him."

Thundercracker is far more reluctant than before, but he goes away. Megatron, on the other servo, is too eager to vanish.

Optimus stays long enough that Ratchet relaxes when there are no more spikes, theory proven correct, before smiling down at his old friend and walking away.

He doesn't bother hurrying to where his Decepticon counterpart is, no need to check.

After all, there's enough material in the sparring room for the irate mech to pummel into iron fillings.

But, just in case he needs a sparring partner or an audio sensor to vent his frustrations into, the Prime doesn't change his direction.

Besides, he needs to ask Megatron how he makes the world stop tilting.

* * *

**AN:** How... the Pit... did this chapter _come to life?!_ What the heck, brain?! Where do you get these things?!

*Sigh* I remember writing the first part, up until Optimus wonders what he can do to help poor Soundwave... And then, I find myself re-reading for typos, and finding my mouth fall open at _what I have managed to come up with_. Does it happen to other people? I don't know if it's a good thing, to be able to read my own story as if it was the first time I saw it, or a bad thing, because now I have more loose ends to deal with than I did before, and I have one more chapter to add to what I thought would be over in 5-6 tops. _14_ chapters, slag it all, and I'm not even halfway to where I wanted to be... _Why?!_

On to other things. My apologies for the lack of chapter last week, I spent all weekend and the beginning of the week with a headache so bad that my head hurt worse just by thinking about my computer. Or thinking at all. When I finally got rid of it, it was Wednesday, so I decided to wait 'till today to post this chapter.

That means you'll have an _extra_ chapter tomorrow ;)

**Angel Heart:** I'm glad there were so many things you liked from last chapter. Hope this one doesn't disappoint.

In case it hasn't become clear with this chapter, the reason Soundwave said that 'Don't come back' was because the 'other' of his flashback was Starscream, and he doesn't want his friend to remember such painful memories. It hurts enough just being there, so he doesn't want anyone actually _suffering_ that. The problem is that if/when the others come back, they'll eventually remember everything, like it's happening with Soundwave slowly recovering memories that, for one reason or another, were blocked. So, the only reason to spare Starscream that agony (and Prowl and Jazz too, consequently) is for him to stay as Reeds, to never be Starscream again.

Hope that clears it.

You know, trying to write from another Stunticon's POV may not be too bad an idea... Making it real, though... The guys know how to wrestle themselves free of any attempt at trying to get into their processors, and that includes Motormaster, who is the most 'cooperative' of them *grumbles* I'll keep trying, but no promises.


	38. Planning for Recovery

Annoying is too soft a word, yet murderous doesn't really cover it.

It's more of a combination of frustrated and disappointed flavored by self-hatred.

It's not as unknown a feeling as it probably should be.

"Alright, lets take a break and—"

"And nothing." He cuts icily, almost feeling his circuitry freeze at his own voice. "This is not working."

"Aw, come on, you need to give yourself some more time and a rest will surely—"

"I said enough." He hisses, and he knows Bluestreak's doorwings slowly lower in disappointment. "I never boarded a Cybertronian. Jazz and Reeds should be the ones out here, not—" His hand finds the small cartridge inserted in the port at the back of his neck, and easily tears it off. "—_me_."

"Prowl—!"

"Stop that!" He finally shouts, rounding on the younger dark gray mech with a scowl, feeling a migraine growing at the back of his head. "I am not Prowl! And at this rhythm I'll never be." His voice lowers almost suddenly, and, dropping the chip Shockwave gave him to monitor his vitals in his transforming practice, he walks back into the base. "I'm not sure he's in here anymore."

There are no footsteps following, but he manages to catch a soft 'Prowl' before he rounds the corner.

"Not anymore, kid." He whispers, a hand rubbing his forehead as he tries to push back the incoming headache.

Three days since Soundwave came back to himself, and the only developments the others have made is get Reeds a piece of coding back and force them to undergo some check ups again.

Nothing has come up, not even in the Air Commander's systems.

Jazz still hasn't got anywhere with his sound abilities, regardless of having both Communications Officers, and Thundercracker from time to time, trying to teach him. Reeds has started on target practice, but he doesn't even know how to transform his arms into the weapons they supposedly are. And none of them has made any progress with transforming, regardless of trying together, with Soundwave, with others of their same frame type, or in individual sessions.

And Fowler… Out of transformation practice he just sits in his room, reading loaned datapads filled with the history of their race.

He has no special ability to train, nothing to occupy his time with, and, despite the fact he treasures the time he gets to spend with the other three, he spends so much more alone that it's breaking them apart.

Slowly, he's not sure even Soundwave has realized, mostly because he still hangs around with Jazz most of the time, and Reeds has recovered his Wing, but he can see it happening.

He can feel it happening.

Worst of all is the feeling of helplessness, of knowing he can _do something_, but not knowing what.

If only his head would _stop hurting_!

With an angered hiss, he stops, uncaring about his surroundings, and presses his fists against his temples.

As all the previous times, it does nothing to sooth the migraine.

And since he has no pills to deal with it, his only cure is closing himself in his room and staying still until it vanishes, trying not to think.

Every time he follows that instinct, he has the distinct feeling of loss, as if he was surrendering, the battle lost even before it really starts.

What if Ratchet is wrong? What if he isn't this Prowl they all think he is? What if he's just Fowler, a human that happens to be somehow similar to that mechanical alien being called Prowl?

_"'Till all are one."_

He hisses again, head shaking softly as his fists press harder against his temples.

But, if he isn't Prowl, what about the random flashes, the feelings of righteousness, the—

Sharp stabs of blazing pain through his head and he feels his knees wobble with a soft gasp, but manages to stay on his feet.

_Room. Now._

Opening blurry eyes—or whatever, he can't care right now—he resumes his walk and, surprisingly, doesn't cross anyone before he gets the door closed at his back.

There.

Blessed darkness.

_"I can't see anything!"_

"No!" He exclaims, hands almost crushing his head with the strength he's clenching it, teeth bared in a snarl. "Enough!"

_"Will it make it any lighter?"_

"Shut _up_!"

_"Look out!"_

He doesn't see it, but, judging by the hard surface he slams against, he's just tripped over his own chair.

_"Are you alright?!"_

"Go away!"

_"I can't leave you!"_

"I'm not him, he's no longer here!"

_"Come back."_

"Leave me—!"

_"Alone."_

This time, the voice is different.

This time, he finds himself answering his own cries.

Fowler against Fowler.

Or Fowler against Prowl?

"Who are you?"

_"Just you…"_

"No… No, I'm not you I… I need…"

_"You're going to need me…"_

"Yes…"

_"But I'm losing myself…"_

"No! No, you're just coming back! Please don't go!"

_"You're going to lose me…"_

"_No_! I beg you, _don't_!"

_"I can't escape…"_

"I'm trapped… This isn't my body… This isn't my mind… I'm… I'm missing…"

_"I left you…"_

"Please come back… I need to be whole, I need… _they_ need… Jazz…"

_"The only friend I had…"_

"He… he needs Prowl, no one else knew him well enough…"

_"Promise you will forget me…"_

"No! I won't! I can't! You're me!"

_"I don't want to hurt you…"_

"It's not _me_ who you're hurting, you idiot!"

_"When I've forgotten you…"_

"Liar! There's no forgetting Jazz, even when I didn't know him I already remembered him!"

_"I need to sanitize the higher institutions first."_

_"Which means—"_

_"__**—striking from above.**__"_

"I remembered him…"

_"Please don't cry…"_

"Jazz…"

_"Everything will be alright."_

_Only the brightest stars are visible from where he's standing, but he doesn't care, for they aren't the reason he has come here—_

**_Prowl doesn't know what Soundwave has in mind, but he knows he can trust him._**

_He lowers his servo slowly, remorseful yet entranced, as the fading bubble of light expands._

**_He's had the strangest feeling, ever since he woke up after their brain hemorrhaging—_**

_He looks up one last time at where the dead star was, the void a source of strength now instead of one of despair._

**_—_****_that the reason he remembers the out of place memories that popped up before the incident—_**

_He feels it before he turns around, before seeing the explosions and being thrown back by the shock-waves._

**_—_****_is because the Military Third did something._**

_He moves as fast as his engine allows, but it's still too slow._

**_He feels grateful for that, but at times he wishes he could forget._**

_By the time he gets there, it's over._

**_The attack, the city, the brothers thought lost, the population…_**

_Clad in his red and white uniform, dark skin clearly scarred on one side of his face, the blue on hands and boots as bright as the rest of colors, and—_

**_—_****_he manages to catch a glint of the attackers through the smoke—_**

_—__the glowing red eyes that—_

**_—_****_had helped each other as if they were of the same frame-type—_**

_—__are now burning—_

**_—_****_their city, obliterated its inhabitants—_**

_—__leaving him feeling empty when they land on his blue ones and—_

**_—_****_what he'd thought was a black hole had just revealed itself a supernova—_**

_"—that destroyed _everything_! He killed them _all_!"_

_"Praxus is burning."_

_"Why did you join them?"_

_"_They_ did it?"_

**_They did it._**

**_They did it._**

**They****_ did it._**

_"They set us up. They took all they wanted and then set us up. And they _won_."_

_"You're a Prime! How can you see what they are doing and_ do nothing_?!"_

_"Demoted without explanation—say he attacked the _Prime_—"_

_"Seeker lover."_

_"Slagging _Doorwingers_."_

_"Decepticon sympathizer."_

_"Vos is burning. The Decepticons—"_

_"Praxus is burning. The Deceticons—"_

_"Prowl, right? I have an offer for you."_

_"Decepticon sympathizer."_

_"Traitor!"_

_"And what in the Pit are you waiting for, a Senatorial Private Pass? Get in gear before I decide to leave you all to serve as bait, Autoscum!"_

_"Now, now, we're all Decepticons here. Minus the Autobots, but since Screamer said to play nice with them—"_

_"What does he think he's doing, helping the Autoscum!"_

_"I, Starscream, Second in Command, Air Commander and acting leader of the Decepticons, in my name and in those of my faction, offer a truce."_

_"Until the sky vanishes at my pass will this truce hold strong as the struts on my back… and may my wings become the word spoken, to be held proudly in accomplishment, and turn to rust if the deal should break."_

_"Hey, take it easy, Prowl. That was a nasty crash. No, not a _processor_ crash, just a crash in the literal sense of smashing against a mountain. What were you thinking? And you, Jazz! Weren't you supposed to keep him out of trouble? We need that slagging battle computer of his to stay _inside_ his helm!"_

Battle comp—?

His senses vanish, the world going black—

And slowly coming back again.

Only, this time, instead of looking up at Ratchet in the Repair Bay of their first Resistance Base, he's staring at Soundwave's visor in his assigned room in the current facilities.

"Prowl?"

He reboots his optics as they threaten to fill with static again, but the worry in the pale red visor stays there.

"Soundwave."

A tiny bond he hadn't noticed before flares to life, relief and happiness pushing a smile on his faceplate as the Cassette Carrier rests his forehead against the side of his helm.

"Thanks for the code."

The Decepticon chuckles.

"Took you slagging long enough."

"Fowler wouldn't have been able to recognize your coding style."

"True."

"Ron?"

The lights in his room are off, yet, bathed in shadows as it is, he still recognizes the frame.

And the voice.

"It's Prowl now, Jazz."

With a couple of steps, the saboteur gets past the threshold, allowing his optics to really see him.

And he's smiling.

"Welcome back, Prowler."

"Prowler?" Both repeat in unison, startled and silently hopeful.

Jazz tilts his head to the side, smile turning to a smirk.

"Always wanted to call you that. You're damn silent, you know that?"

"A… nickname." Despite everything, Prowl is too tired to keep the disappointment completely out of his voice.

The blue visor pales as its owner easily notices it.

"You mean your Jazz calls you that too? I like that guy."

And as if nothing had happened, the Autobot SIC feels amusement flood through his wires, getting a small chuckle out of him.

"You like yourself." Soundwave deadpans, and, despite his optics being offline, he can picture the blinding grin Jazz answers with. "Why am I not surprised."

"Ouch, right through the heart. You wound me, Sounders."

"Designation: Soundwave." Monotone and all, the irritation is practically palpable.

Prowl snickers again, too drained to try to suppress it.

"Should we get him in bed or to the Med Bay?" Jazz asks, voice soft, as he feels him kneeling by his side, the Doorwinger's weight almost completely resting on the Cassette Carrier.

"Repair Bay. Check up: Recommended."

"And the Hatchet'll turn us into toasters if he ever learns we let him sleep this off, huh?"

If he had the energy, Prowl would have chuckled once more at the shiver passing through the frame he's resting again.

The last thing he knows is that he's being hefted up into some-mech's arms, a soft pulsing in his spark and a flighty presence close by lulling him into recharge.

* * *

"I don't see the difference."

"Hell_o_?! Is that excuse of a brain connected to your mouth or is the problem between your eyes and that lot of empty space?" Not even trying to suppress it, Reeds turns a deadpanned glare to the smaller black and white mech sitting next to him, visor pale blue in disbelief.

"Yes, there is a difference, but what I _meant_ is that he's acting like he's on duty. And seeing how he's literally _living_ in his workstation, that's kind of expected." He answers, forcing himself to keep most of the bite out of his words.

Sure, there has been an obvious transaction from Fowler to Prowl, but not as exaggerated as Soundwave's.

In fact, the mech is now more like the Civilian Second Reeds remembers than the man he called a friend from his latest, and blurriest, memories. And even though that's a bit strange, it doesn't mean he'll just walk out of the room to vent to a group of strangers.

Alright, he probably would, but since Soundwave explained, and showed, that the human and the Cybertronian are essentially the same, he's gotten over the 'Fowler is gone' phase, and right into 'would you look at this, he's _still_ Fowler'.

As said before, however, the changes that have happened this time have helped him in that regard.

"No, it's _not_ expected. You know him from Governance meetings and Civilian Government, but _I_ know him from the Enforcers, too. And those first two things _were_ work, but the Enforcers? They weren't!" Jazz explains with a set of flailing gestures that, amazingly, don't attract the attention of anyone else in the Rec Room, no matter that it's half full.

"What did you do to make it that way, then?" He asks, taking another sip of his almost empty cub of Mid Grade, leaning against a hand almost lazily, though curious at the same time.

For some seconds, the Civilian Third just stares down at the table and his own full cube.

"Kinda worked with him all the way from the bottom."

"And that helped him loosen up around the rest of Enforcers?"

"No, that… we managed that with…" Jazz brightens in an instant, turning to him with a wide and blinding smile, and Reeds has to blink to make sure that he hasn't imagined the sudden change. "Music Night."

"The dance classes? You're doing those already. With permission." He can't keep himself from smirking at that last sentence, and the smaller mech scowls.

"And that's precisely what I'm talking about! Fowler wouldn't have given me a lecture of half an hour about rules and regulations, he would have given me The Look and told me to make sure everything was as it had been once I was done."

And… he can _hear_ the capital letters. Was that supposed to be a good sign or a 'run away' sign?

"So, Music Night is out of the question."

The expression Jazz has on his face isn't the blinding grin from before, but his custom-made and patented 'I'm going to make you wish you hadn't even _thought_ of being born and you will _never_ know it was my doing' smirk.

Meaning, he should have run away even before the thought of doing so came to mind.

"No." The Air Commander says instead, calm and collected yet firm as the Protectodo—er, whatever thing is stronger than the Protectodome. "I know that look. I've seen it on Grant, on Skywarp, on Frenzy and Rumble, on Sideswipe before all the wash-racks spilled pink goo, and I've seen it on _yourself_. _No_."

"But I _need_ you." The Civilian Third whines, and good try and all, but he's already heard that—

_Wait, what?!_

"You… _need_ me?" He repeats slowly, making sure to enunciate every syllable, and the Head of Special Operations beams and nods, as hopeful as a child who has just been told they're getting candy.

A _very young child_.

Mixed with as many puppies and kittens and any other hopeful tiny animal that can fit in such a large smile—which are quite a lot, either that or he can think of far more than he ever cared to guess.

_Aw, heck._

He can never say no to Skywarp or the Cassette twins either.

And he has the feeling he'll be able to hide his cooperation as well as with any of them.

Which is to say, he'll have Jazz bouncing down the corridors shouting how 'awesome' and 'cool' Reeds is for giving them some tips about ambushing their latest prank victim or getting them that super strong glue from the labs.

"I'm going to regret this later." He simply answers with a huff, downing his drink, and the Civilian Third's smile widens, impossible as such a thing had seemed.

"Trust me, if this works, you'll have given the rest of the world some good nightmare fuel for the rest of their lives."

He perks up at that, the smile having turned into a mischievous smirk that would have made him run away screaming the other way…

If he didn't have the same exact expression on his own face.

"Please, do tell." He purrs, and he's suddenly very aware of how the whole Rec Room has gone silent, all optics and visors on the two of them, and how each and every mech is trying to subtly edge away towards the doors as fast as they can.

"Lets get to my room first. There are some things that are… better discussed in _private_." The Head of Spec Ops answers with a velvety voice that makes more than one set of fans start spinning, and Reeds barely manages to turn his cackling laughter into a throaty hum of appreciation, slowly standing in a way that has all visual arrays following his every twitch of plating from the tilt of his head to the very tips of his clawed tri-dactyl feet.

"I'd rather we forego any discussion… and _tackle_ more pressing issues." He adds, voice lowering almost seductively, which is answered by a definitely dirty smirk as the Civilian Third stands up, arms held over his head in a stretch that makes even _more_ fans turn on.

"Should I grab a snack for the way?" The Enforcer asks _sweetly_, one finger caressing the rim of his cube in a completely innocent way, slipping inside only to be brought up to his lips and cleaned slowly and thoroughly by the Head of Spec Ops' tongue.

There's some kind of muffled needy whine, and Reeds' smirk widens against his will, though he quickly uses the slip to turn his expression almost ravenous as he leans close to the smaller mech's face, wings fanning to the sides and down, the tips skimming the ground as he moves them slowly to flank the other Cybertronian in what should look like possessiveness.

"I'm afraid your mouth will be too busy for it." He answers, tone light yet voice even lower and raspier, and a shudder visibly shakes Jazz's plating.

Another whine along fans turning louder, and the Head of Spec Ops lifts a hand to trail a dactyl feather-light along the Flier's extended neck cables.

"You sure you can keep up with me?" The smaller mech purrs, visor dimming to a sultry azure as he leans back against the table, exposing more of his body, to their audience's obvious delight.

"I can always ask for a replay." Reeds answers casually, and this time there are moans instead of whimpers.

"Wouldn't mind giving it to _you_, big boy." Allowing his body to follow that sense of déjà vu tugging at the back of his mind, he lifts his wings slowly, fanning them so that more of their surface is facing the Head of Spec Ops, flaps twitching open and closed in an unknown rhythm that only makes fans turn faster, but keeping them still in reach of the black and white mech.

"Well, now that the terms have been set…" He whispers, leaning even closer to that sultry visor, making the white and black head tilt back with his sole proximity, and feeling the hand caressing his throat land on the back of his neck. "How about you and I get going…" His voice lowers even more, wings vibrating with a subsonic purr, as he slowly traces a hand up the outside of a white thigh. "And you tell me about this prank you're planning?" He finishes in his usual condescending tone, straightening as if nothing happened and resting his hands on his hips, wings lying against his back at an angle that just reinforces the slight annoyance in his eyes.

Jazz smirks good-naturedly and pushes back against the table to properly stand, walking calmly to the door with the Flier following at a more sedate pace.

"Oh, it's a pretty simple prank. Just some acting, certain words said at the right time with the needed intonation—" The door closes at their backs, and the Head of Spec Ops' happy smile turns into a shit-eating grin. "—and we'll have the whole room screaming once they reboot their brains."

And, in cue, the whole Rec Room erupts in groaning and cursing and even some cries of despair loud enough to be heard even halfway down the corridor.

"Alright, I'm in." Reeds manages to get out between his chuckling, and Jazz's smirk turns slightly threatening.

"Good. Now, we only need to get Soundwave in and we're ready to go."

"Suggestion: Not trying." Startled, they both freeze as they turn the corner, the dark blue mech waiting for them with his arms crossed against his chest not even reacting to their 'deer in the highlights' expressions—before his facemask retracts to reveal his own menacing smirk. "I'm already in."

* * *

**AN:** And after some long chapters, a short one. Sorry about that, but I hope its early update helps.

I have to admit I scared myself with the first part of the chapter. When I was puling quotes up from previous chapters and adding others from yet-to-be-seen scenes, I didn't think it would all end as it did *shudder*

As for the second part... What can I say? I wanted some light conversation, and maybe to get to what is now the next chapter, and instead I get Jazz and Starscream... well, you already read that. Dang chapters taking lives of their own...


	39. What You Don't Know, Can Hurt You

The Rec Room is filled with chatter, but it quickly turns quiet when Jazz stands up and walks to the center, to the space that has been cleared especially for Music Night.

Which happens to be tonight.

Skyfire looks curiously, sipping from his Energon, while Wheeljack hushes Perceptor's explanation of a theory on the portable Space Bridges they are working on, to the red mech's annoyance.

The last five days have been both familiar and strange, the first because of Prowl and the second because of all the Decepticons around.

The Autobot Second in Command has been getting up to date during the last week, and now is pestering certain mechs to get long overdue reports in order to elaborate an accurate chronology and modus operandi of the Quintessons and each and every Cybertronian's actions to better predict movements and elaborate tactics.

It is a mind-boggling concept, but to the Praxian it's like Xenobiology is to Skyfire.

Meaning, easy.

The Decepticons, against all predictions, are collaborating easily, even helping the Doorwinger out.

Most of them, anyway. Those that weren't captured in the first appearance of the Quintesson drones, to be more accurate, though Megatron deals with everything quite well too thanks to his experience in the Protectodome.

They haven't seen Prowl in the last two Music Nights, that is, since he regained his memories.

Jazz, however, doesn't seem the least bit disappointed.

Which makes all of Skyfire's alarms go off.

He doesn't have proof of anything, the only thing he has is the feeling that Something Is Coming.

Though perhaps he's just being paranoid. Being around Steve as much as he's been in the last one-hundred twenty eight years would do that to anyone.

Once he makes sure he has every-mech's attention, Jazz smiles.

Skyfire tenses.

And again, without reason, because it's just a smile, not a smirk or a grin, not even a dark smile.

Just a small, calm smile.

"Alright, everyone, I have a favor to ask." The Shuttle's wing partitions press against his fixed wing panes. "I know tonight's Music Night, and that some of you, if not all, are waiting expectantly to get on the floor and shake your plating, but I must ask that you don't." Confused murmurs start on the background, but go silent as the saboteur holds up a servo. "Can you do that for me?" After some more whispering, nods start to answer, as well as spoken replies, and Jazz's smile widens. "Thank you, my dear public. Keep quiet now, 'kay?" He adds with a wink, before turning around to face the door and letting his helm fall to rest on his chest plate.

Skyfire, Perceptor and Wheeljack exchange confused looks.

For what feels like a short eternity, nothing happens, not a sound to be heard, expectation building up until it fills the room like a sticky mass that only holds them even more still and silent the further it stays unperturbed.

And then, music fills the room.

Just a couple of chords, Jazz raising a servo palm up towards the door at the sounds, but staying still as more follow, before turning sideways with that same servo hiding his faceplate when the next set sounds, stilling once more as if… as if there was supposed to be someone else there, moving to fill the quiet.

The melody starts on full, the Head of Special Operations once more turning forward, a rhythmic 'clearing' motion with his servos, and from where he's sitting Skyfire can see his mouth open—

"**You're insecure. Don't know what for.**" The Shuttle's jaw would have clattered against the table if it wasn't attached to his helm.

Jazz is _singing_.

And it's not a bad voice, not at all. It's a nice equilibrium of melody and speech, the pitch being slightly lower than his voice but easily maintained, the words clear and slipping out of his voice box with a fluidity that would make water jealous.

"**You're turning heads when you walk through the door.**" All optics turn to said door when it opens, astonishment keeping the mechs otherwise motionless, and Prowl tilts one doorwing along his helm in a curious gesture at all the stares. "**Don't need make-up to cover up. Being the way that you are is enough.**" The saboteur adds with a wide grin, servos on his chest plate making a pumping gesture, as if to mimic a heartbeat, and the SIC's gaze turns to him before he walks inside, body angling to walk by the other mech towards were Optimus and Megatron are sitting—

—and Jazz steps towards _him_ with such determination that the Doorwinger freezes even before he manages one step.

"**Everyone else in the room can see it.**" The black and white mech sings, close enough to intrude in the Tactician's personal space, as he spreads his arms in an encompassing gesture before taking a step back, one servo gesturing to the Second in Command. "**Everyone else but you.**"

"Jazz, what are you—"

The music changes, rhythm more accentuated and _something_ jumps to Jazz's side.

"**Baby, you light up my world like nobody else.**" Skyfire drops the cube in his servo as both Jazz and _Steve Reeds_ start hopping along the music, _singing_.

Well, the Air Commander is more like speaking melodically, what with his voice, but they're both smiling and moving as one, and Prowl's optics are pale in surprise, helm tilting in a mixture of curiosity and astonishment.

"**The way that you tip your helm gets me overwhelmed.**" The SIC straightens so fast that his back struts should have snapped, unable to look away from the other two, who are now turned to the side, still hopping, with one of the Decepticon's servos on Jazz shoulder plate. "**But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell.**" And he can't hear it, but Skyfire can see the Doorwinger's lips move to mouth the word 'smile'. "**You don't know…**" The mechs disengage, facing Prowl once more to point at him— "**You don't know you're beautiful!**"

The Tactician's mouth falls open, and, somewhere behind the Shuttle, someone crashes.

Jazz and Steve just start with their hopping once more, arms moving in a sharp circular motion.

"**If only you saw what I can see—**" They move forward, one step at a time, arms moving from their hips down in the saboteur's case and up in the Seeker's, complimenting each other. "**—you'll understand why I want you so desperately.**" They go back to their hoping and circling arms, stepping away from the dumbstruck Doorwinger. "**Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe…**" They point again— "**You don't know…**" They hop, gesturing for the room to join them despite knowing no one's able to move— "**You don't know you're beautiful!**" Pointing once more, they relax, frames no longer following the rhythm— "**That's what makes you beautiful!**"

And point once more, wide grins on their faces, yet no hint of mockery on them.

"Real funny." Prowl scowls, having somehow recovered while the rest of the room's occupants still try to reboot their processors—

The music hasn't stopped.

"**So co-come on.**" Skyfire thanks once more that his lower jaw is attached to his helm because _oh Primus Steve is **singing**._

Talking melodically, actually, but _Primus_. It's beautiful in a way only Starscream could make it, silent engines thrumming along his voice in a way Skyfire is _sure_ he doesn't even know he's doing it, but his wings partitions open widely in an effort to catch _more_.

It feels like when they soared through the stars, each and every one of them having their own soundless song, their voices and _oh **Primus**_, who cares if Wheeljack is staring at him or that he's whimpering softly so long as he can hear _that_?

Miraculously, his reverie is over in less than a nanoklik, so he doesn't miss the next words.

"**You got it wrong.**" Prowl's optics darken in a frown, and Skyfire has to work to remember that his last words to the singers were that he thought all of that a joke. "**To prove I'm right I put it in a song.**" The Tactician lets out a tired sigh, helm lowering— "**I don't know why you're being shy.**" The glare he drills into Steve should have made him spontaneously combust, but the Flier's grin doesn't vanish, red optics meeting blue unflinchingly.

The Autobot SIC looks away, towards the table where the faction leaders are sitting, obviously ready to walk away—

"**And turn away when I look into your eyes.**"

"I do _not_—" But the Praxian silences himself before he can do more than glare the dancers to deactivation, annoyance growing exponentially.

"**Everyone else in the room can see it.**" Both sing back, Jazz approaching as he did before while Steve stays still, not moving until the saboteur is gesturing to the room. "**Everyone else but you.**" They go back once more, the Autobot staying in front, before they point at the Doorwinger again.

Prowl tenses, optics blazing but faceplate cold as stone—

And Soundwave appears suddenly at the Seeker's side, dancing with them and with facemask retracted and lips moving and—_singing_.

"**Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you tip your helm gets me overwhelmed. But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell. You don't know… you don't know you're beautiful!**" As they keep singing, Prowl's flabbergasted look diminishes, turning to an emotionless mask, as his body slowly relaxes to the point nothing can be glimmered from it. "**If only you saw what I can see—**" As they move to step forward, Jazz and Steve with complementary moves, Soundwave follows his fellow Decepticon's movements, a too obvious empty space between them. "**—you'll understand why I want you so desperately. Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe you don't know… You don't know you're beautiful! That's what makes you beautiful!**"

Singing some 'na, na na na', Jazz steps forward, one finger up before he starts a rhythmic soundless clapping, followed by Soundwave… putting a servo against an audial and moving his helm as he walks to be level with the saboteur, as if trying to hear the clapping of their still immobile public, before mimicking Jazz, and, finally, Steve joins them with a high sweeping motion of one servo, urging the dumbstruck mechs to _do something_.

Completely emotionless, Prowl steps past them through the void between the Decepticons, optics offline and helm titled downward, as they continue with their clapping.

His mouth opens, and Skyfire is sure he's going to order them to stop making fools of themselves—

"**Baby, you light up my world like nobody else.**" The three dancers kneel down gesturing to Prowl as he _keeps singing_, his voice deep and smooth and capable of harmonizing various sounds at the same time as he tilts his helm to the side— "**The way that you tip your helm gets me overwhelmed. But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell…**"

And he smiles.

He's literally smiling at the ground, optics still offline, as the other three slowly get to their feet—

"**You don't know you're beautiful!**" Prowl turns around with a hop, as easily joining the dance as if he'd been part of it all along. "**Baby you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you tip your helm gets me overwhelmed. But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell. You don't know… You don't know you're beautiful!**"

And the emptiness between them is finally filled, the Autobot SIC not singing as much as echoing certain words, and it's just because of the way he keeps watching the other three, specially Jazz, so attentively that betrays the fact that he has no idea what he should be doing, and that he's trying his very best to mimic the rest of dancers, not joining the song so as to not distract himself and end up tripping them all.

As he and Jazz start with their own routine, complementing Soundwave and Steve's movements, the Doorwinger finally smiles.

A smile that is as much Prowl as it is Fowler, who is a more relaxed version of the first.

It slams so hard that Skyfire's jaw falls open once more.

He hadn't realized Prowl had been so tense before, so high-strung and closing himself away from the rest slowly but progressively, burying himself under his newly reclaimed duties and trying to deal with a vorn and a half of conflict that he barely has any memory of.

It wouldn't have been today, and not tomorrow, but he'd have broken.

And when, not if, that happened, there would have been no turning back.

"**You don't know… You don't know you're beautiful! You don't know you're beautiful!**"

But Skyfire hears the truth, and he smiles too.

_You're precious to us. Please don't go away._

"**That's what makes you beautiful!**"

And the music stops, Blaster breaking out in loud 'whoops' and clapping, and the Shuttle finds himself, Skywarp, Thundercracker and all of the Cassettes, joining in their applause and whistling and shouts for a repeat performance.

As soon as they stop pointing at the door, the position their dancing has left them in, Jazz engulfs Prowl in a hug.

The Tactician laughs.

A sharp yelp from the Autobot Communications Officer makes the scientist turn to him, only to see Blaster trying to support Optimus Prime, whose optics are dark and his frame limp in what can only be stasis from a crashed processor, Megatron resting against the blue and red mech in the very same position.

Skyfire laughs so hard that he falls from the bench.

* * *

"He looks kind of cute."

"You're drunk."

Unable to roll his eyes as he is, Reeds still manages to send such a message with his dry words.

Jazz simply sticks out his tongue before turning once more to look at the recharging mech nestled against his side, helm resting on his chest and engine purring softly.

Not knowing if it's normal or not, the Head of Spec Ops decides to make a note to ask Ratchet in the morning, and lets it slide.

"So are you, but that doesn't mean he's not cute." In a similar position than the Civilian Third, the Air Commander just waves a hand to dismiss his words.

The Rec Room is almost completely silent, only some loud humming from a corner where Blitzwing and Astrotrain are piled on the ground breaking the stillness.

Jazz makes another note to ask Ratchet if the noise is snoring.

Most of the room's occupants retreated for the night on their own, some a bit drunker than others, so that the celebration that followed was nothing like the previous big party, though it had been quite close.

However, this time there weren't as many drunk mechs lying around.

Soundwave, for starters, had herded his tipsy creations away while they could still walk, while Prime and Megatron had been carried away, along some others that had fainted at their musical number, to the Repair Bay, and few of those that had taken them away had staid long after they returned.

So, right now, only the two Triple Changers, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker and the whole Stunticon squad, or whatever they're called, remain, deep asleep.

Plus Jazz, Reeds, Prowl, Thundercracker and Skywarp, of course, the last three knocked out and trying to bury themselves into the still awake mechs as much as they can.

"Do you want to go outside?" The Civilian TIC has to blink a couple of times, refocusing on the ceiling before managing to turn to the Military Second.

"Outside?"

"I'd like to feel the wind."

After some seconds of silence, Jazz slowly gets Prowl off of himself and stands up.

"Sure."

They leave the three asleep Cybertronian curling against each other in a pile of utter cuteness before they calmly walk out, finding a starry sky over them.

They were more than a little surprised to learn that what felt like a normal day to them was actually about nine days, and that they slept for seven more or so, but they got over it.

However, it's always a surprise to go out and see if it is actually light, since none of those still thinking themselves human can manage to keep tabs on the real time.

"Hey, what are you two doing?"

Startled, Jazz whirls around, and it takes him a moment to recognize the five figures lying on the ground, calmly sitting up.

The Combaticons. Otherwise known as Bruticus' pilots.

"I thought you guys went to your quarters?" He asks, curious, and accepts their invitation to sit by their side when they gesture for them to do so.

"Nah, we aren't overcharged enough to just crash. Hey, Air Commander, are you coming or what?" The smaller one with the big ankle and shoulder wheel-things asks, and the Head of Spec Ops almost has to force his name out of his brain.

_Swing? Singer? No, Swindle._

Once that is taken care of, he looks back to where Reeds is still standing looking up at the stars with… recognition?

"Is that… the Androra system?" As one, they all turn to stare at the sky, though Jazz can only see stars and more stars.

A blanket of stars.

A beautiful sight his eyes—or whatever—had never before laid eyes on. That he remembers, of course.

After all, he's supposed to have travelled among them.

"Left and under the X'laya star—"

"—And at the right of Omaris and Numbra's twin dwarves." Reeds finishes, and the one with the large shoulders looks awed instead of angry at the interruption.

"Looks like you've done your homework." Their leader, Onslaught, comments appreciatively, and, finally, Reeds comes to sit by Jazz's side.

"I… haven't. No one has shown me a star chart since… Since never, actually. I'm not even sure I should know what a star chart is."

"You remember them from before, then?" The tough armored one asks, surprised, and the Head of Spec Ops finally manages to find their names.

Swindle and Onslaught he's already identified. The one with the large shoulder things is Blast Off, and the one to talk is Brawl. And then there's Vortex, who looks more asleep than awake, still lying down.

So many names…

"I remember small things. Most times they're just feelings, like… Doing things differently than I'm told, or speaking words I hadn't thought about. It's quite confusing, truth be told."

"I'll bet." Swindle… pouts is the most accurate description, before he stands up to sit by Reeds' other side and sprawls on the Flier's lap like an oversized cat. "You know, you could try to tell us and we'll see if we could help." The Air Commander looks half confused and half amused at the other mech's actions.

Finally, he rests more comfortably against one outstretched arm while he pulls the other up to let pointy claws trail feather-like along the Combaticon's back.

Swindle starts purring with a shiver and a cat-like smile, all but melting into a puddle of content goo.

Jazz snickers.

"I'll take that into account." Shuffling makes them look up, and the Head of Spec Ops' amusement only grows when he sees a zombie-like Vortex move to Swindle's side and push him to lie on Reeds' legs, all so that he could have some space to curl against his side. "Al_right_… Anyone else wants to join?"

The words are obviously sarcastic, but a second later Jazz finds himself displaced so that Brawl can mimic Vortex, with Blast Off resting above the four-winged mech to lay his head on the Air Commander's chest, Onslaught tugging the Seeker to lie on the ground and be able to mimic Blast Off on the opposite side.

It's hard, but the Civilian Third manages to keep his cackling down to some muffled snickering as he observes the pile, a morose Reeds in the middle with his legs trapped under Swindle's weight and his arms somewhere between the mechs pressed against his sides, five heads resting on his stomach and chest as if they're the most comfortable pillow around.

"Why did I have to say anything." Jazz snorts, but the Combaticons seem comfortable enough that they don't even care to move.

In fact, with their optics and visors offline, it looks like they're all asleep. Well, recharging.

"Now _this_ is cute." The Military Second glares, but the Head of Spec Ops only beams happily in answer before moving to lay in the opposite direction of the Flier, their heads side by side as they watch the stars.

"Don't you feel like… Like you're _home_?"

Jazz stays quiet for some minutes, analyzing the question as he stares at the glittering pinpricks of light against the otherwise dark sky.

It _does_ feel somewhat like home, more so with the feeling of the sand rasping against his plating, but when he tries to focus on that feeling, he finds himself back in his apartment, chatting with Fowler as they eat toast and coffee.

"Kinda." He answers at last, voice soft, and suddenly feels really small when he realizes that somewhere up there, or maybe facing the other side of the planet, their own home world is waiting for them, wandering among the stars.

They can't see it, and he can't remember it, but it's there. Somewhere. Maybe.

"Do you think Cybertron is up there?" He asks without thinking and startles when a black arm intrudes in his vision, pointing—

At what looks like any other space between visible stars that they can see.

"There. Close to the Zarantha system, moving towards G'an'ara. The gravity well of Misoma should pull him towards K'ntha before reaching Somera, however. Unless her speed has decreased, in which situation she'll angle to the void between Eth'The and Hezthe, or increased, meaning she'll just continue on to Brava with a minimum deviation."

Silence.

"You're making that up, aren't you."

The arm vanishes, and Jazz turns his head to see a dumbstruck expression on the matte black faceplate.

"I… No, I'm not."

"Awesome as always." Swindle hums, startling the Civilian Third, while Onslaught's visor slowly lights up next to the Head of Spec Ops' face.

"Seekers always know where Cybertron is. To be able to calculate her trajectory so easily is hard, but doing so from an unknown position? That's Starscream for you." The Combaticon leader explains calmly, half-lit visual band giving him a somehow sleepy look.

"He'd been on Sol III before, remember?" Brawl points out from somewhere further away than Onslaught, sounding more asleep than awake. "Exploration mission."

"I was an explorer?" Reeds asks, curious, and various hums of agreement answer him. "Sounds nice."

"You had fun too. Told us yourself. 'Till Skyfire." Jazz perks up, as does the Seeker, and they both turn their heads in Vortex's general direction.

"What happened with Skyfire?"

"He got deactivated. Kaput. Dead. Bye-bye. Well, he didn't really do, but everyone thought so."

"You got kicked out of the Exploratory Division of the Iacon Academy of Science and Technology. Baaaad times." Blast Off adds with a soft whining whirr that resembles a yawn.

"Mute it. We shouldn't be telling him that." Onslaught's servo moves a bit shakily as he reaches to slap his companions on the top of their heads, but he manages, receiving some 'ow' as reward. "He's got to remember on his own."

"But maybe that _will_ help me remember."

"Nuh-uh. The Hatchet's scary." All Combaticons shiver and press tighter against Reeds at Swindle's words.

"Aw, looks like you've got yourself some chicks, Mommy Bird." Jazz mocks with a too sweet voice, snickering softly.

But no answer comes.

When he turns to the Seeker, he sees he's staring unseeingly up at the stars, optics a deep maroon red.

"Reeds?"

"Not all of them can fly." The Air Commander finally answers, though his voice is too soft.

"Chickens are birds and don't fly. Makes no difference." He adds cheekily, but the only reaction he gets is some mumbling from the Combaticons. "Steve, buddy, are you alright?"

"I'm… trying to make sense of the new stars." Confused, Jazz looks up, but he doesn't see anything new.

Though he probably wouldn't have recognized it, had it been there.

"New stars?"

"The flickering large ones. Those trapped in the boxes. I can't seem to find the ones I'm looking for."

"Reeds, my mech, I think you drank too much."

"No. That idiot tossed me away, so I need to find a way to get back. And no one's saying I can't use the chance to get some old friends back." Slowly, red light bathes black metal as the Combaticons start paying more attention, optics and visors coming online. "I got the frames back on the island, the missing parts here and the converter working. But I can't find the sparks. There's too many tiny ones distracting me."

"You already got us out, Screamer." Brawl cuts softly, as if unsure.

The almost imperceptible tension of the Seeker's frame disappears.

"Oh. That's right. We caught one of those slagging Minibots and that annoying Jazz, and we almost got Megatron too…"

And the Civilian Third finally realizes that Reeds is reliving a memory. And that no matter how much it hurts to think about it, they were enemies back then.

"Slagging Megatron."

"Hey, everything turned out alright in the end, remember? We got to Cybertron, got our frames upgraded with _real_ Cybertanium armor and made a ruckus big enough that ol' Megs had to get Prime to help."

"And the great Starscream saved the day, recovering his position as Second in Command and demonstrated his superiority by having the anti-hack patches he'd installed in our processors be overlooked by the emotionless Shockwave, and thus allowing us to keep our freedom under a pretense of obedience." Vortex finishes Swindle's retelling with grandiose hand gestures that even Jazz can see from his position on the ground.

"You were against Megatron? Why?" The Head of Spec Ops asks, confused, for the Reeds he knows is loyal to a fault when it comes to the Decepticon leader.

"Not really against. He lost my respect. Lost my loyalty. And lost his sanity. I steered him along, tried to get him back on track. Those slagging Autobots needed to be stopped, but to go to such extremes… Perhaps it would've been a good idea to negotiate with Optimus Prime as soon as he got the Matrix."

"Mech, you're making no sense."

"Extinguishers, all of them. I would… would love to…" Red optics flicker as Reeds nestles more comfortably under the Combaticons' weight. "… would love to rip 'em all to shreds again… Their screams were most delightful… And the sparks…" A pleased small smile appears on the Air Commander's lips, but he finally falls into recharge.

"Mind explaining?"

No one answers, so Jazz shrugs and deactivates his visor, ready to catch some 'Z's of his own.

A gust of wind blows past them, and the black and white mech shivers at both the cold seeping through his armor and the sand getting into his seams.

Grumbling to himself, he stands up and walks back inside, leaving the pile of mostly matte black mechs to catch a cold on their own.

He has a pile of a Tactician and two Fliers waiting for him in the Rec Room.

And maybe there's some High Grade left too.

His cold entrails will thank him.

* * *

**AN:** The song is _What Makes You Beautiful_, from One Direction. The dance is a slightly modified version of _Just Dance 4_'s. Yes, I like _Just Dance_, it's a funny way of exercise.

I knew from the very beginning the pranking thing was going to be a dance, 'cause that's how Jazz expresses himself better, and it could work as both a way to stun the others and deliver a subtle message that Prowl would be able to unravel. In this case, what Skyfire said:_You're precious to us. Please don't go away._

Now, I'm not sure if I'm going to get to explain some of the subtleties in this chapter in the future ones, so here:

Blaster was an accomplice. Jazz asked him to call Prowl to the Rec Room and start the music when he was close enough to enter the room during the X second of the song (which coincided with the door thing). So, Blaster was the DJ, but had no idea what was going to happen.

The song is 'fictionally' made up. Meaning we all know it's not mine, but, for the sake of the story, let's just say Jazz wrote it, 'kay? Thus, the lyrics are in Cybertronian, but are written in bold to distinguish them from normal text. And yes, Jazz accurately predicted Prowl's moves. It was risky, since the SIC could just turn away and leave him to be ridiculed, but that's why he 'hired' Reeds and Soundwave and timed their entrances.

Megatron crashed when Soundwave joined the song. Optimus, when Prowl started singing. Blaster's happy clapping and bouncing on the bench (he was sitting next to them) made their precarious balance of leaning against each other be broken, so the Autobot's Communications Officer was almost crushed under their frames.

Skyfire and Starscream's Trinemates are used to his sense of humor, and the Cassettes knew something good was going to happen. Cue their still being functional, even if they were in shock during the song.

And about the second part... The systems and planets' names are made up, so any semblance to real names is pure coincidence.

If you have questions, feel free to ask. I'll try to answer.


	40. Not Alone

Soundwave snaps to full active status suddenly and without explanation.

His quarters are dark and quiet, his Cassettes piled over him and the berth in a way that all seven fit in an average one-mech berth without much discomfort, still recharging peacefully.

There's no one on the other side of the door, and he has no messages or open comm lines requiring his attention.

And, as far as he knows, he hadn't been going through a flux or memory in his recharge.

So why has he rebooted with such urgency?

Annoyance through a bond makes him stop glaring at the ceiling, curiously turning his attention to his spark—

A strong fraternal bond that had been inactive last on-cycle.

The Cassettes yelp and groan loudly as Soundwave jack-knives to a sitting position, making some of them fall to the ground, visor flashing in disbelief and hope.

"Ouch, what was that for, Boss?"

"Yeah, we were just—hey, Soundwave, where are you going?!"

But their voices get lost as he runs out of his quarters and transforms, driving through the corridors as fast as he can maneuver, more than one mech having to jump over him or press against the wall as he rushes past them, ignoring their indignant and worried shouts.

_Please, please, _please_…_

As soon as he jumps out of the entrance, he transforms, sand flying from under his skidding pedes as he tries to keep his balance.

"Whoa! What an exit!"

"I think the idiom is 'entrance'."

"But he exited the complex, so it's an exit."

Brawn looks about ready to slap Swindle for his know-it-all tone, but Onslaught grabs his lifted arm with a resigned air.

"I was actually expecting your Fliers." The matte black Seeker deadpans, standing tall and cocky, a superior being that knows he's better than anyone else present, optics half lit and the other two Combaticons standing morosely at his back. "The Quintessons may be off of this mud-ball, but they're still out there, so it's about slagging time some-mech did something and actually made sure these scrap rejects can keep themselves airborne while turning to the left."

"Hey..." Vortex whines while Blast Off looks mildly insulted. "We can turn in midair."

"And we really need to recharge through this after-overcharge mess." The Shuttle adds with what can only be called a pout.

"Don't worry, guys. You have all our moral support." Swindle snickers, plopping to sit cross-legged on the ground.

"Get up, I have some training for you too." The Seeker hisses, and the three Grounders groan.

"But you're a Flier!"

"Yet I can kick all your afts. _That_ should be more than enough reason. I have some target practice for you." He scoffs, pointing over his shoulder plate at the two Combaticons at his back, who stiffen in fearful surprise.

"You can't be serious!" All five screech in unison, and the only answer they get is a dangerous smirk.

"Starscream?" The Cassette Carrier calls, unable to stay silent anymore, and the Seeker turns to him with annoyance.

"Didn't I tell you I want those flying Scraplets of yours up here? What is taking them so long?"

Soundwave embraces Starscream as tightly as he can, arms around his waist and helm against the middle of his chest plates, listening to the workings of his fuel pump and feeling the slight tingle of energy conveying surprise.

The frame in his grip relaxes, one servo patting his shoulder plate, and the Communications Officer knows the Seeker is smiling exasperatedly.

"There, there."

Slowly, Soundwave releases his grip, onlining his visor to look up at Starscream's fondly annoyed smirk, and punches the side of his helm so hard that the Flier lands on the sand with a loud clang.

"What the Pit was that for?!" The SIC screeches, startled and annoyed as he rubs his dented helm.

"Don't you _ever_ dare leave me like that, you hear me?" He hisses, pointing a dactyl menacingly at the mech sitting on the ground.

The Seeker smirks.

"My, my. Worried much, Soundwave? Over poor little me? Whatever did those Quintessons do to the cold and emotionless Decepticon we all knew and hated?"

The expression on his faceplate is that odious mightier-than-thou sharp grin, but his optics are a sincere innocent red and their bond is thrumming with calm and happiness, letting him know he's just teasing his fellow Decepticon.

The Communications Officer's facemask slips back, revealing the serious set of his mouth—before he breaks in a dangerous grin and pounces.

Starscream shrieks and turns around, but Soundwave holds on tight, trying to immobilize the squirming Flier as they tussle on the sand, almost barreling into some of the Combaticons, Swindle taking bets as more voices speak up, confused and some mildly horrified.

Finally, fans working madly, the Decepticon TIC finds himself straddling his immediately superior officer with a triumphant smirk, knees and servos keeping matte black arms immobile against the ground as Starscream scowls darkly.

"Just worried this 'cold and emotionless Decepticon' wouldn't get to kick your aft himself." He answers cockily, and the Seeker's scowl deepens—

There's a flash of a smug grin, a soft soundless thrumming, and next he knows, Soundwave is lying on his front with his faceplate buried in the sand, a heavy weight comfortably resting on his back as a well known cackling fills his audials.

"Looks like you need some extra training too, 'cold and emotionless Decepticon'. What have you been doing this past vorn and a half, sit behind a desk and stare at a screen?"

Turning his helm as much as neck struts allow, the Communications Officer gives the Air Commander a spark-extinguishing look.

Starscream's smile widens.

"_Screamer_!"

Before any of them can react, the weight pinning Soundwave down vanishes as something tackles the Seeker off of him.

Standing up and brushing the sand off his frame, the Decepticon TIC doesn't bother keeping his chuckling quiet as he watches Skywarp almost bend his Trineleader in half, so strongly is he embracing him, paying no mind to the screeched orders for the completely matte black Flier to be released.

Fortunately, Thundercracker manages to wrestle their Third off of him and help the Air Commander to his pedes—before engulfing him in a hug himself.

Starscream squeaks, but immediately starts fuming again as Skyarp excitedly joins the embrace once more, effectively keeping their Trineleader from squirming out of the blue-marked Flier's grip.

"What the heck is going on?" Jazz asks, dumbfounded, from where he's standing next to a stunned Prowl, a growing group of mechs trickling out of the base to see what is going on, including Soundwave's own Cassettes.

"Starscream's back." He answers with a relieved and happy smile before pulling his facemask back in place, watching two of the Decepticon Elite Seekers be scolded like human children when their Trineleader manages to break the hug, a scowl on his faceplate as he glares them into submission.

"—going to deactivate you _myself_ and just spare me the trouble! _Swindle_!" The Combaticon squeaks, halfway to the base as he slithers through the startled observers, who immediately move to let him be seen.

Not even looking away from his Trinemates, Starscream simply points to where the rest of Combaticons are standing, and the con-mech morosely goes back to his Gestaltmates, sulking at his escape attempt being frustrated.

"You're not going to go ahead with that target practice thing, are you?" Vortex asks with a tremulous grin, and the arm pointed at them suddenly loses the servo as it disassembles and disappears against the walls of the slowly lighting up opening of the arm-cannon.

Both the helicopter and the Shuttle jump to the air with a loud curse, transforming and with their engines running hot despite not moving a micron, ready to follow any and all orders.

Thundercracker and Skywarp's optics pale as their Trineleader's darken, and immediately follow the Combaticon's example.

"Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Ratbat: Obey Starscream's instructions." Soundwave commands calmly, ignoring the betrayed looks his creations spear him with as they tentatively join the other Fliers in the air.

"Didn't know he's such a training freak." Jazz whistles, and the Seeker tilts his helm to give him a deadpanned look.

"You'd rather we're unprepared when the Quintessons decide to visit again? _Sunstorm_, I _know_ you're there! You and Acid Storm better get your afts here before I decide to just _dismantle them_!" The two Fliers quickly make their way through the fearful or dumbstruck crowd, taking to the air without more prompting than seeing the still charged arm-cannon now pointed at the ground. "Now, where are those slaggers of the Coneheads? I still owe Ramjet a _lesson_." The blue and purple-marked Tetrajets shiver in their hovering positions.

"Most likely still out in some corridor. There was a party last night, with lots of High Grade, remember?" Jazz answers with an amused smile, and Starscream growls.

"When I get my servos on them, I'm going to try my new corroding acid formula on their _wings_." All Fliers shiver this time at the dark words, but the Air Commander seems to lose all his anger and annoyance with a sigh, arm-cannon turning back to being a simple arm as the servo reassembles. "Alright, you can all land. I'll make sure the training schedule reaches you within the joor."

More than a bit relieved, the Decepticons obey, though none of them go back inside, unlike some of their observers.

"You have way too much energy after drinking as much as you did." Jazz snickers as Prowl turns a small glare on him, most likely willing him to mute it and not attract Starscream's attention in a potentially harmful way.

"I've always had a high tolerance to overcharging. Until those canned meatballs decided to mess with me, that is." The Flier hisses, wing flaps flaring menacingly as his optics fill with Energon-lust. "They'd better pray I don't get my servos on them, because I'll do more than let them look as one of them is ripped to spare parts."

Soundwave tenses, startled, but Starscream just turns his helm calmly to meet his visor with determined optics.

"You… can't be serious."

"Ripping my armor and non-vital systems was nothing, I've had worse. Doing it where you could see it and do nothing, after they had taken your creations and isolated any and all bonds with scrambler fields, poked and prodded at your frame and tossed me in there to give you vain hopes and false security with the sole purpose of finally breaking you when they turned me into scrap? I hope they have sparks, because I have a lot of ideas I want to try." He lifts a servo, dactyls curled into menacing claws that start to glow and crackle with electricity as small arcs of lightning cross between them. "It'd be a shame if they didn't get to know of all I can do with these modifications."

Soundwave's spark stops, pain flaring to his whole frame as the scene in front of him turns to those Energon-stained dead gray walls, each and every carrier-creation bond throbbing with fear and pain and being cut as swiftly as only deactivation can, one by one and so slowly that he feels his Cassettes' agony for orns as they continue to do whatever they're doing to them before they vanish suddenly from his spark, not even one of those burly green guards so much as looking at him, leaving him to rust as his creations suffer—

A warm arm around his shoulder plates tugging him close to an even warmer and intact frame, a servo guiding his helm to rest against chest plates under which a strong spark pulses, the tingling warmth of security enveloping him in the form of two long and thin wide wings, a comforting soundless melody thrumming through his tense relays and cables to slowly help him relax.

"Better?" A soft voice rumbles next to his audial, and, unwilling to move, he just nods, his arms moving to encircle his support's torso, pressing them closer. "Sorry. I assumed you remembered everything from back then. I shouldn't have done so." He just shakes his helm, trying to burrow himself better against the mech's side, wings pressing closer in a tangible shielding gesture, as well as supporting with the warmth of the energy coursing through them, the lullaby growing stronger with their proximity.

"What's going on here?"

Soundwave pulls away with a startled jerk, standing at attention to face the newcomers, vorns of habit compelling him to appear strong and emotionless in front of not only the Decepticon Supreme Commander, but also their enemies.

Megatron glances between his two officers with a look that is practically ordering them to explain themselves, while Prime curiously turns to his own SIC and TIC, standing a polite distance away from the Decepticons.

"About slagging time you two got here. I thought your frame was faster than your outdated processor, but looks like the Quintessons only managed to make it worse. Either that, or the vorn and a half of sitting on your aft and watching holographic battles rusted you enough to give that bunch of chips and wires you call a processor an edge."

And… Starscream's back in all his glory, insulting Megatron first thing in the working cycle after their superior suffered a processor crash, as if he wasn't about to get his own aft handed to him for that.

Though the look of utter disbelief and the mouth hanging open without a sound coming from it seem sure signs that the Decepticon leader is trying to keep his processor functioning at the surprise of suddenly having his Second in Command back and as annoying as always.

"Starscream?"

"I spoke too soon." The Seeker deadpans, crossing his arms against his chest plates and lifting his wings to a position of superiority. "Your processing capabilities have only gotten worse."

"Mute it, you glitch." Megatron scoffs, recovering from his surprise and walking to glare down at the immutable Flier. "Just back from thinking yourself a flesh-bag and already claiming a position that's not yours? Why am I not—"

"I claimed nothing." Starscream interrupts with a menacing hiss, optics darkening though staying sharp. "I am Air Commander and Second in Command, for better or for worse, even if I have to deal with an outdated and glitched superior." He spits, dark scowl on place, and the Supreme Commander leans down closer to almost press his faceplate against the Seeker's.

"Anything else?"

They stay silent, glaring at each other, for so long that the crowd's joints lock with tension, every single mech expecting a bomb to explode but unable to look away or try to stop it.

Starscream's wings lower as his faceplate relaxes.

"Glad to have you back, Commander." He says simply, a small smile on his lips before he steps back and stands at attention while Megatron straightens, his own satisfied and relieved smile on his faceplate. "Your orders?"

"Stop being an aft."

"I'm afraid that would result in the destabilization of the whole universe and its subsequent collapse." The Decepticon Supreme Commander snorts at the calm and completely certain tone of the answer, and, to most of their audience's disbelief, reaches to poke the Flier's helm hard enough that the mech tilts a bit to the side before he regains his balance.

"Then go get rid of all that sand and come to Meeting Room 1 to get updated on the situation, you smart-aft."

"Now, I seem to recall name-calling is a defensive response adopted by those who suffer insecurities about—" Megatron cuts the rant with another amused snort and by grabbing the Seeker's helm with a firm yet careful grip and pushing him towards the entrance of the base, eliciting a yelp from the Flier.

"Just get going before I decide to leave you out here to wait for rain!" The silver and purple-accented mech orders with a scowl, crossing his arms against his chest plates and straightening menacingly.

"Aye Sir, Commander Megatron, Sir." Starscream drawls with a lazy salute, but saunters inside snickering loudly when the Decepticon Supreme Commander just points to the base, his Trinemates eagerly following and falling into position behind him and at his sides while talking happily.

The crowd disperses, some still dumbfounded, others confused and even some laughing and chatting excitedly.

Soundwave stays in place, watching his Cassettes standing inside the entrance, waiting for him but trying not to intrude.

A strong servo lands on his shoulder plate, and he lets a small smile appear on his hidden faceplate, not needing to turn around to see who is by his side.

"Looks like we got the old Starscream back."

"Correction: Megatron recovered Starscream's respect."

"I should have never lost it in the first place." The mech whispers remorsefully, and the Cassette Carrier turns his helm to look at the shadowed optics of his commanding officer.

"Suggestion: Be more careful this time." And, with a smile once more on his faceplate, Megatron squeezes his shoulder plate in thanks before releasing him and walking towards the base.

"I want you in that meeting, Soundwave. And you better bring your officers too, Optimus."

"We'll be there."

Prowl and Jazz smile at the Communications Officer and give him a thumbs up, respectively, before they head inside too.

Five of the six highest ranking officers of the whole Cybertronian species are back with all of the experience of a nine million vorn war, plus one impossibly resourceful saboteur.

The Quintessons better run.

* * *

"Alright, spill."

"What?!" Prowl looks more than mildly insulted as he gets out of his reverie, the rest of mechs around the table stopping their discussion to focus on them.

"There's something that has been bugging you ever since you walked through that door. So, spill. What's up?" Jazz explains, spreading his hands questioningly.

"I… I have recovered a memory, but I'm sure there's something wrong with it." The Autobot Second answers, doorwings tensing on his back.

"Can we help?" Optimus asks calmly, as curious as Megatron, while Starscream and Soundwave look at the silvery white mech attentively.

"I'm not sure. It's just…"

"Is it from the Protectodome?" The Seeker questions, tilting his head curiously, and Prowl nods. "Then it's probably the faces."

And both leaders and the Communications Officer nod in agreement, and, despite not sharing the sentiment, Jazz understands.

To remember someone as a human when they've known them all their lives as Cybertronian, their appearance must be quite misleading.

Prowl tenses so sharply that the Head of Spec Ops almost jumps away.

"Prowler?"

"The faces. Of course!"

"I have the feeling we're not thinking the same." He blurts out, but knows his words are accurate as he hears them.

The Autobot SIC's reaction wouldn't have been that intense.

In fact, it's almost as if he's had an epiphany of world-shattering magnitude.

"When the Protectodome fell, in the secret basement of the Civilian Government Building—"

"There's a basement under Civilian Government?" He blurts out, mouth falling open, and Prowl flinches as if in pain for a second before focusing again on the issue at hand.

"There is. A Quintesson base. You and I went there to kill the Quintessons."

"Did we succeed?" He asks softly, awed, and the Tactician's whole demeanor darkens.

"I don't think so."

"What?!"

"We found a dead Quintesson in there." Optimus points out, lifting a hand to calm Megatron, while the two Decepticon officers exchange startled looks.

"Precisely. _A_ Quintesson. I remember seeing _five_ faces."

"Quintessons have five faces." The silver and purple-marked mech points out, optics darker in confusion.

"But I shouldn't have been able to see them all at once."

And now they all tense.

"You mean…"

"You found one Quintesson. But there should have been at least another one, if not more."

"Which means they're still out there." Starscream whispers, optics paling and wings shivering before he stands up with a snarl. "Shockwave's drones have been scouring the Protectodome, and mapped the underground tunnels. If they were in the same room the body was in—"

"There has to be a secret passage." Prowl finishes as he too stands. "I believe I may be able to find it now that I have knowledge of the facilities."

"I'll watch your back."

"I'm coming too." Soundwave adds, and both winged mechs stop to see him standing up. "I can hack into whatever machinery is still functional."

"No slagging way!" Megatron roars, slamming his fists in the table as he stands with enough strength to indent it. "We're sending more drones—"

"To do what? The things are useless when it comes to finesse!" The Seeker scowls, wings fanning high and wide. "Soundwave can get us in, erase us from the systems, Prowl can find the canned meat-bags and I can provide cover. The drones would probably collapse any tunnel just by trying to find it!"

"I'm coming too." All visual arrays turn to Jazz, as serious as never before as he walks up to his fellow Autobot officer. "And don't you dare say I can't because I don't remember anything before the Protectodome. I can still kick ass and use a gun, and I _am_ the Head of Special Operations. I'm _not_ letting you go alone into uncharted terrain with a bunch of psychos probably waiting to ambush all of you."

For a moment, nothing happens, blue optics staring into blue visor with an intensity that could melt steel.

And then, Prowl nods and turns to the door again.

"We meet on the surface in five kliks."

"Understood."

"No!"

"Sir, with all due respect, if the drones and whoever you have sent haven't found it by now, it either doesn't exist or they're useless." The Tactician cuts the Autobot Commander, glaring at the larger mech. "Besides, a smaller strike force has a better chance at a successful strike than a platoon of drones. I suggest establishing a perimeter around the entrance and any other known escape routes. If the Quintessons haven't escaped by now it may very well mean there was only one exit. If it has, we won't find anything there."

"But—"

"All the drones from the Protectodome shut down when we destroyed the main control room, and we will be ready for any traps."

"Are you really sure about this?" Optimus asks softly, looking like a kicked puppy.

"It's the best course of action."

"Does it have to be you?" Megatron questions this time, looking at his officers, and they both nod. "Don't you dare leave me to deal with him alone." He adds with an obviously fake scowl as he points to his Autobot counterpart, and the other two smile softly, unseen though it is in Soundwave's case.

"You can always get him overcharged." And the scowl becomes even more forced at the Seeker's nonchalant words as the purple and silver-marked mech tries to hide the amusement easily visible in his optics.

Without another word, they step out of the room.

Jazz turns to go to the armory when he finds a gun thrust into his servos before he manages even one step.

Startled he can only look up at Soundwave before the Cassette Carrier pulls him along after the winged mechs.

"But what about you?" He calls softly, and can almost see the dark blue mech's rueful smirk under his facemask.

"I have one waiting topside."

Instead of asking again, he just follows.

And, as expected, his answer is given when they meet a bored-looking Skywarp at the entrance, a gun just like the one on Jazz's hands being handed to Soundwave as they approach.

"There. Why the Pit did you want me to—" The Seeker stiffens, immediately turning to Starscream with a pleading look, and the Air Commander rests his servos on his shoulder plates reassuringly.

"Please, stay."

"But—"

"Skywarp."

Conflicted as he looks, the purple-marked Flier manages to nod and not move as the other steps away.

"Jazz, pedes on the hip-latches, and try not to mess too much with the wing joints." The Decepticon SIC orders as the other Decepticon and the Autobot Second change and drive away, and the Head of Spec Ops' confusion immediately vanishes as he transforms.

A bit awkwardly, he manages to climb onto the Seeker's sleek fuselage, anchoring himself by slipping his feet through the metal arcs on what once were the mech's hips and pressing himself as close as possible to the matte black plating.

He ends up grabbing the wing joints for a couple of seconds as they take off, the harsh burst of speed almost throwing him off, but releases his hold as soon as possible to not impede his ride's mobility.

Soon enough, they're flying over Prowl and Soundwave's vehicle modes, the Cassette Carrier's a boxy thing with the wheel-shaped round things imbedded in the main body, so that they're not visible from above.

It takes them far too little to get to the Protectodome, and Jazz finds himself almost thrown off again as Starscream goes into a nosedive.

Just about to crash into the ground, the Flier rights himself, speeding between the two ground-bound crafts as they transform and grab the black and white mech's outstretched arms.

The humming of the Tetrajet's engines becomes painfully loud at the added weight as they soar over the remains of the Protectome, the city coming into view soon enough.

It is... a depressing sight.

Whatever happened since then, and regardless of what he now knows, it still pains Jazz to see what he's thought of as home in such a state of ruin and abandonment.

The grips on his servos, alleviated by the other two also using the hip-latches as support, tighten a bit, and he lets a rueful smile flash on his faceplate before vanishing it.

He has a new home, with his family.

And they're going to make sure no one messes with it again.

Despite it being nothing more than rubble, the Civilian Government Building is easily recognizable.

They jump off the Tetrajet as they stop next to the cleared entrance to some kind of basement, and Starscream easily transforms to fall into a graceful crouch, one of his arms changing to its canon mode as he straightens.

Prowl just nods before dropping down into the unknown.

Jazz follows, with Soundwave and the Seeker close behind, and they all ready their weapons.

The corridor is empty.

Wings wide open and swiveling and twitching softly, Prowl starts forward, the rest following with Starscream at the back, his own matte black appendages mimicking the Autobot Second's.

**They're sensors.**

The Head of Spec Ops almost jumps out of his armor at Soundwave's voice coming through the comm, but a quick look makes him realize he's referring to the wings.

… Maybe he hasn't hidden his curiosity as well as he thought.

He just nods before they both turn their attention to their surroundings.

Before they know it, they find themselves in a trashed room at the end of the corridor, burnt machinery and scorched walls all their optics and visors can see.

Doorwings spread wide, Prowl roams the room, a servo cautiously skimming over small cracks and holes in any metal surface.

A scowl appears on his faceplate.

**Nothing.**

Jazz relaxes almost before he has a chance to tense, and makes a note to remember they'll be communicating through comm lines while in here.

Silently, Starscream gets inside too, the other two following as they sweep the room again.

**Here.**

They all swirl around to where Soundwave is crouched next to the computer against a corner, just in time to see the Communications Officer pull off a panel on its side and fiddle with the cabling.

**What is it?**

**There's a current going through it, but it's not connected to the rest of machinery. If I'm not mistaken—**

The wall retracts with a sharp hiss, revealing an almost completely dark corridor, long light bands on the ceiling giving off a pale glow.

Without another word, Starscream steps inside, wings pressed against his back, and Jazz takes the position at the back of the group, weapon ready.

Once they're all inside, Soundwave presses a square gray button on a wall and the passage closes.

**Remember where that is.**

They all nod, and keep walking.

For a long while, there's nothing, only an endless straight gray corridor.

And then, they see the door.

The Communications Officer nods when they turn to him, the servo not clutching his gun resting on the wall at about the same height the control pad was, and they tense.

Transforming his other hand, Starscream steps forward, his wings spreading at his back to force them to stay in place.

Once he's almost touching the door, he pulls them closer again, spreading them as much as the corridor's width allows as he tilts his helm, listening.

A frown appears on his faceplate, and, when he looks back at them, he shakes his helm.

**But there's energy coming from there.**

**I can hear nothing, feel nothing. This place may be active, but if there's something alive in there, it's really well shielded.**

**We know the Quintessons can shield really well.**

All optics darken menacingly at those words and, straightening, Strascream brings his canons forward and shoots.

The door flies off its frame with a metallic shriek, but the one that answers it is obviously not from an inanimate object.

The Seeker rushes inside with a loud roar, Prowl running after him with Soundwave and Jazz following closely—

The walls of the corridor explode, the ceiling raining down on them, and the Head of Spec Ops barely has the time to throw the Communications Officer down as a hulking matte black shape slams impossibly big fists where they had been standing.

He quickly pulls the Decepticon to his feet as gunfire echoes all around them from the room now at their backs, but their attention is on the behemoth of a drone blocking their way to the exit.

Blocking the wreckage that is filling the corridor, actually.

More of the Quintesson's terrified shrieking comes through, which is the only signal Starscream and Prowl are still causing trouble, as Jazz raises his weapon and fires between where the drone's optics should have been had it had any.

Or a face, to be more accurate.

Its head is just a blob on top of a large chassis, and, as its small size suggests, not really important.

Otherwise, the hole now in the armor would have made the thing wobble, at the very least!

"I'm starting to think this wasn't a good plan!" He shouts, shooting a couple more times to completely shred the thing's so-called head, but to no avail.

And then, Soundwave pushes him aside and steps in front of him, some low humming coming from him before a—a _wall of sound_ slams into the drone, its plating buckling under the pressure of the noise, Energon spurting through the gaps.

When the sound ceases, the drone falls down like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Mech, you have to teach me that!"

"Gladly, once we're out of here." The Communications Officer answers as he turns around, ready to rush to the room—

The wall next to them explodes.

Jazz rolls over the fallen drone's frame, avoiding as much of the debris from the ceiling and whatever was on ground level as possible, though some large slabs of what feels like concrete almost take his head off—and they manage to get his gun and the arm holding it.

He curses loudly, trapped under the weight, as the shoulder spits sparks and Energon at a dangerous rate.

A loud humming courses through the air, making his plating tingle uncomfortably, and, throwing it all to Hell, he jerks himself away from the debris.

And leaves his arm trapped under it, a growing puddle of pink liquid surrounding it as wires dangle from the ripped joint.

Red fills his vision as what looks like damage reports pop up.

By sheer willpower, he pushes them back, searching the corridor to try and find Soundwave.

A relieved smile takes over his faceplate as he sees him standing shakily, leaning on the deactivated frame of a giant drone that wasn't there before, Prowl running out of the door and helping the Communications Officer walk to where Jazz is.

"We need to get out!" He shouts as Starscream rushes after them. "The Quintesson activated some kind of bomb before we got it!"

"And it just keeps getting better." He drawls with a lopsided smirk, getting to his feet and dismissing the other mechs' startled and worried looks with a wave of a servo. "Just a scratch. Let's scram!"

The wreckage on the corridor, however, doesn't seem to want to cooperate.

"I'll see if there's an exit above!" Starscream shrieks before jumping through the mess of the ceiling with help from his soundless engines, disappearing into the darkness as soon as he gets to it.

"Hurry!" Prowl shouts, analyzing the debris once more before swearing out loud. "There's no way we're getting out through here!"

"Found it!" Red optics appear through the hole over their heads before a black arm reaches for them. "It's small, but Jazz could get through it to widen it!"

"Then what are we waiting for?" The Head of Spec Ops answers with a big smile, grabbing the outstretched servo with his remaining one. "Up we go!"

He doesn't know if it's the pulling or the loss of Energon, but it takes him a moment to get the world to stop spinning as the Seeker practically carries him through the debris.

The light blinds him for an instant, but once he realizes what it is he quickly scrambles through the opening as the Flier runs back to get their other companions.

It's a tight fit, but Jazz manages it.

He doesn't even stop to see where they are, just turns around when he gets outside and starts trying to push away slabs of metal and rock.

Easier said than done. One can only get so much leverage with just one arm, and his strength is waning by the second.

"Come on come on come _on_!" He shouts, using his body mass to try to displace a stubborn beam, but, instead of moving, Jazz slips and lands in a puddle of sparkly pink liquid.

Energon.

His _own_ Energon.

"Slag it!"

"Jazz?" He stands up wobbly, but manages to kneel before the barely cleared exit, still too small for the others. "Are you alright?"

"Am I—Are you kidding?!" He shouts, but Prowl's blue optics, casting ghostly shadows over his faceplate, betray nothing but worry. "I'll get you out of there."

"Jazz—" His voice drops as the Head of Spec Ops stands again, leaning against the stubborn beam to regain his balance before he can start pushing again.

Not an inch.

"Move, damn you!"

"Jazz, listen to me!"

_No, no, no no no no nononono—_

"Jazz!"

_I can't listen, I_ won't_! You're not going to tell me to go away, not this time!_

"_Jazz_!"

"I'll get you out! I _will_!" The beam groans—

And falls off, bringing the Head of Spec Ops with it as he suddenly loses his support.

With a wide hopeful smile, he scrambles to his knees, head swimming too much to get to his feet, and turns to the blue optics on the other side of the hole.

And freezes.

Prowl is smiling.

A haunting, sorrowful yet proud smile that he had never seen before, but that he never truly forgot.

"Prowler?" He whimpers, and he's not sure if the other has heard, what with the sound of shooting and ripping and shrieking of metal from the inside, flashes of pale blue shadowing the Autobot Second's face, but not his optics, _never_ his optics, even if he wishes he couldn't see them and the emotions in them— "_Prowl_?"

"I'm sorry."

The world explodes into a column of light reaching for the heavens.

He can feel the ground trembling under his back as the air itself seems to vibrate, but the orange tower disappears, taking all light with it—

_"I can't see anything!"_

_"Neither of us can see anything."_

_"Do your scans pick anything?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_"That we're down the deep end here."_

_"Won't you mute it?"_

_"Will it make it any lighter?"_

_"Primus, give me strength…"_

_"… I'm dreaming, right?"_

_"Get ready."_

_"Look out!"_

_"In there!"_

_"Are you alright?!"_

_"I will try to hold them off."_

_"But—!"_

_"Run!"_

_"I can't leave you!"_

_"You have to. They _need_ you."_

_"Come back."_

_"… I'm sorry…"_

"Prowler…?"

Silence.

* * *

**AN:** I swear I don't know what happened. There was _at least_ one chapter between the two scenes, but... it's not there. Poof. Gone.

The title is from the song _Not Alone_ by Red. I was listening to it, among some others, while writing the final scene and... I finished writing as the song started again, so I just spent the next four minutes trying to hold back tears. And that's why the chapter has its name, ironically.

One more chapter to the end of Part II (NOT the end of the story, worry not).


	41. When We Stand Together

Slowly, Jazz's visor comes online, flickering and dim, but growing steadier and brighter with each nanoklik.

Optimus doesn't need to say anything, for Ratchet is already there, looking at the screen monitoring the saboteur's vitals as much as he does the mech.

"Hey Doc." The Head of Special Operations rasps, a small crooked smirk on his faceplate as he finally focuses on the Medic. "Guess I finally pissed someone I shouldn't." He adds with a cough-like chuckle.

And lifts an arm to rub his forehelm.

His reconstructing arm.

It's only the struts and main cabling and fuel lines as of now, so, even though Optimus' doesn't know what it's like, he knows it doesn't feel like a fully functional arm.

Which is confirmed as Jazz freezes before he can even see it.

After a small eternity, he finally lifts his arm.

The Prime can see the exact moment his spark breaks.

"No."

"Jazz…"

"No. No, no, no… It's not real. It can't…" Almost desperately, the saboteur turns his helm to the sides, seeing only the walls of his small room. "Are… Are they in other rooms? Can… Can I visit?"

"They're not." Ratchet whispers, putting a hand on the black and white mech's undamaged shoulder when he sits up. "You need to lie down."

"Have they been discharged already? How… How inconsiderate, didn't even bring me flowers." He chuckles, but Optimus can hear the pain and desperation in it as the smaller Autobot almost physically shoves the truth away.

"Jazz, no one's been discharged."

"Then… Where… Where are they?" He whispers, almost practically a whimper, as he looks up at Ratchet pleadingly, plating pressing to his struts as his whole frame shakes.

The Medic stays still, as if trying to find the right words, but he doesn't have to answer.

Jazz's visor pales, slowly, as his fake smile trembles and turns to a spark-wrenching expression of despair.

"No. Please, don't…"

Ratchet looks away.

Finally, the saboteur looks down at his mismatched servos, and whatever little hope he'd kept alive is snuffed out almost audibly.

A soft static sob escapes through his lip-plates as he shivers harder, curling his dactyls, but not completely into fists.

"No…"

"Jazz, please lie down. You need to rest."

The instant Ratchet's servo touches his shoulder plate, the Head of Special Operations shoves the mech away with a roar.

"_No_! I can't—I can't have failed them!" He shouts, voice turning to a whimper as he slips off the berth, the Medic hurrying to his side as calmly as possible. "Not again…"

"Jazz…"

This time, Ratchet's grip is firmer.

The saboteur punches him with his good arm with enough strength to send him to Optimus' feet.

"_No_! **_No_****!**" Busy helping the Medic to his pedes, the Prime can't do anything but watch as Jazz whirls around and punches the wall.

With his reconstructing arm.

The crack that fills the room is alarming enough, but the sight of the forearm breaking almost at the elbow sends Ratchet rushing to the smaller mech.

The Head of Special Operations turns around with another roar, swinging his damaged arm with enough strength to have the broken forearm detach itself and slam into the Medic's faceplate.

Energon starts dripping.

When Optimus steps forwards, however, Ratchet stops him with a lifted servo, a determined though pained look in his optics.

Jazz's fans are working non-stop, visor flickering as everything finally crashes down on him, and he falls to his knees, another sob escaping through his lip-plates.

And then, the most spark-broken wail he's ever heard fills the room and makes the Prime's spark twist painfully as the saboteur curls into himself.

Unable to help, Optimus deactivates his optics and turns his helm away.

Only when Energon loss gets to him—again—does Jazz fall silent, and only then can the Autobot Commander make himself useful by getting him on the berth.

Ratchet doesn't need to tell him to go away as he connects the Energon drip and gets to seal the newly ruptured lines.

He walks out of his own volition, trying, and utterly failing, to mute the screams in his processor.

* * *

The Rec Room doesn't go silent, but it's obvious that it's now much quieter than it was before.

Jazz doesn't care.

Or, actually, the most accurate term is that Jazz doesn't notice.

Skyfire watches with a heavy spark as the formerly cheerful saboteur makes his way to the Energon dispenser to get his ration.

No one saw him during the first two weeks after… _after_.

But that was to be expected since he was in his own room in the Repair Bay.

Now that he's been released, however, mechs wish they _didn't have to_ see him.

He's not closing himself in his room, he's not avoiding others but… he's not himself either.

He's a wraith, a ghost of who he once was.

The dead gray arm doesn't help either.

It's fully repaired, it just needs some more time for the color nanites to cover it again, but until then it's a reminder of their failure.

Of their loss.

Skyfire looks away, his spark shriveling once more as the thought manages to come up again.

_Is this how he felt after he lost me?_

He quickly shakes that away, unwilling to dwell in such musings.

He's… he's not strong enough to deal with it.

Not now.

Probably not ever.

He wishes there could be something to distract him from everything, science doesn't help, not when he's constantly assaulted by memories twice lived, once as a mech and another as a human, or by thoughts of how would a certain chaotic yet brilliant mind tackle some issues.

A hint of movement catches his attention and, startled, he watches in silence as Ratbat stops next to Jazz.

He knows the other Cassettes are there, they never go alone anywhere, but he can't make himself look around.

The Rec Room is completely silent.

The saboteur doesn't seem to notice, one servo grabbing his full cube.

Ratbat's mouth opens.

"I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me." Jazz freezes. "I remembered each flash as time began to blur." The Cassette isn't singing, he's just reciting, talking so softly that, if it wasn't for the quietness, he would have gone unheard, but Skyfire recognizes the words. "Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me. And your voice…"

Nothing.

Ratbat's hopeful red optics dim as he lowers his helm.

"And your voice was all I heard." The Shuttle's systems wind to a stop, as if to better hear the voice that hasn't spoken since almost a whole month ago. "That I get what I deserve." Jazz's grip tightens.

The cube breaks, Energon painting that dead gray hand a macabre pink.

Slowly, the saboteur turns it to observe the droplets dripping down his arm, slowly pooling on the ground and lapping at his pedes.

He just lets his servo fall to his side and walks away.

A wraith once more, only this time, everyone can see what he sees.

The Energon tainting his servos.

Skyfire wishes he could help.

But, as he watches Ravage embrace a sobbing Ratbat, the other four joining them without care for the mechs in the room, the Shuttle looks away.

He wishes he could help.

But he can barely deal with things himself.

* * *

Motormaster has never been a team player, least of all when it comes to the Combaticons.

The Constructicons are alright, they are loyal to Megatron after all, but Onslaught's team had to be _reprogrammed_ into loyalty.

He's never been a team player, and he's never cared for others as long as they served Megatron and the Decepticons.

But seeing Wildrider and Drag Strip play a racing game on one of the consoles installed in the Rec Rooms and have Swindle sitting next to him without starting a betting pool on who would win, or how long will it take for Wildrider to decide to punch Drag Strip to distract him, or something of the like…

It's not _right_.

"Want to bet?" He asks softly, awkwardly, and the Combaticon hums inquisitively, though still staring at the wall as if had the secrets to bending luck his own way. "Who's going to win the race." He adds, nodding to his brothers, who have started bickering by now, Breakdown and Dead End not even looking up from their game of Quattra.

"Wildrider." The con-mech mumbles after a crowing shout from said Stunticon, just before Drag Strip leaves him behind.

"Wildrider can barely figure out how the controls work." He points out, more than a bit unnerved at the Combaticon forgetting such a point.

After all, he always makes sure to know as much as possible from his bets so as to get the most profit from them.

And he _knows_ Wildrider can't play with the console to save his spark. He was there when the Stunticon threw the controller into the screen to make his character move forward.

"Then Dead End."

"… Dead End isn't playing."

"Whatever."

Starting to really worry, Motormaster looks around, hoping for a miracle.

Fortunately, Onslaught decides to enter the room that very moment.

More than one mech startles when the Stunticon starts waving his arm almost excitedly, beckoning the other Gestalt-leader closer, but he doesn't pay them any mind.

When the Combaticon sees him and approaches, as sedately as has become usual since a month ago, Motormaster stands up to meet him halfway.

"You have to take him to the Repair Bay. I think there's something wrong with his processor." He hisses, keeping his voice low, as he points to Swindle.

"Why would you say so?"

"First, he didn't start organizing bets as soon as they started the game. _I_ had to ask him if he wanted to bet, and he said _Wildrider_ was going to win. _Wildrider_." He adds, emphasizing the name as he alternates between pointing at his brothers, now almost at the brink of a physical fight, and the still unmoving Combaticon. "And when _I_ pointed out Wildrider doesn't know how the controls work, he bet on Dead End." And, as if it was explanation enough, he gestures to his Gestaltmates once more. "He's not playing!"

"I can see that." Onslaught answers calmly, walking past a dumbstruck Motormaster to lay a servo on Swindle's shoulder plate.

The con-mech looks up at the contact before giving the fakest smile ever.

The Stunticon leader has to hide a shiver.

"Time to train."

"Do I get to shoot at Vortex this time?"

"You know Brawl needs the practice more. You're a better marksmech, and Blast Off still needs more evasive practice."

"Alright." Swindle answers with that fake happiness, getting to his pedes. "Are you going to be shooting at us again?"

"Would you like to try it later?"

"Sure."

"Wait." Motormaster lets out without thought, and almost most surprising than the conversation is the fact that both Combaticons stop. "You shoot at each other… for training?"

"Quintessons use scramblers. One hit and we're as good as gone. The better strategy is not to get hit and take the enemies down quickly." Onslaught explains with that same infuriating calm, almost like a drone himself, so… empty has he become.

Motormaster has never cared much for others, least of all the Combaticons, but… there's a point when a mech has to say _enough_.

However, there are more important matters at the moment, because that suggested training method…

"Isn't that the training St—"

The charged blaster under his chin cuts his words off as effectively as if his voice box was suddenly gone.

Onslaught's visor, for the first time in a month, is _blazing_.

Almost as intensely as the warm metal making his neck-cabling uncomfortably hot, to tell the truth.

_When did he _move_?_

He feels his brothers watching them attentively, tense and coiled as they prepare for anything that may happen, but holding themselves still for fear of making the Combaticon leader move if they so much as twitch.

Nothing.

Onslaught doesn't move, doesn't shoot but doesn't pull away either, and now Motormaster's Energon lines are starting to heat up too.

He could try to slap the other mech's weapon away—or even the Combaticon himself, but… would he be fast enough?

A Cybertronian's frame has limitations, a maximum speed, a maximum weight they can lift, but they can be modified. Keeping the frame well-cared for makes it able to reach its limits, and changing certain small things, like gears and cabling, can give it a small boost, sometimes barely noticeable.

But it is the processor-spark-frame connection that allows it to actually give its all, and sometimes even more. The further attuned to its frame a processor is, the faster, easier and more accurate the response. The further attuned the spark is to both processor and frame, the better regulated its energy out and input, and thus better reactions and more power to spare as only that which is necessary is used on even the smallest twitch. And the further attuned the frame, the better it can carry out the processor's commands and deal with the spark's energy.

Rossum's Trinity.

However, there are some other limits to take into account.

The Stunticons, pre-modeled before the spark transfer, could never attain the level of attunement Onslaught just exhibited, despite the Combaticon supposedly being pre-modeled too.

But the one to return their frames went after their sparks purposefully. Could it be he knew the specifics to their original frames well enough to design their replacements as they had been?

… A question for another time, seeing the reaction to the non-mention of the Seeker's designation.

Yes, pre-modeled mechs have their limits, but…

"Can we join?" He manages to ask, his voice staying steady and with just the smallest hint of nervousness in it.

Onslaught's visor darkens as he ponders his words, his blaster not moving a nanomicron.

Always the Tactician, but if he doesn't take that slagging weapon away before Motormaster's neck-cabling melts, he's going to—

The blaster is pulled down, charge dispelled before it's once more hidden in the Combaticon's subspace.

"Why."

Rubbing his heated up neck-cabling, the Stunticon scowls.

"'Cause that isn't going to help them evade the hits, and as much as I like landing them instead of avoiding, there won't be one if we can't make the other happen." He answers, gesturing to the paused game and the forgotten Quattra board.

Onslaught's visor brightens again, though is it him or does it look a bit redder than the muddy version it has been this past month?

"Suit yourselves. But be warned, we don't pull our punches."

"We don't either." He answers with a sharp smirk.

"I say they're all down in two breems."

"I say _you_ are all down in… five breems."

"Loser has to clean the other Gestalt's living quarters." Swindle's smile is clearly mocking and far too self-assured, but slag him if it doesn't feel the tiniest bit right to see it and hear those words.

"Deal." Motormaster answers, and the rest of Stunticons groan in pain.

Yes, they may lose—this time, he's going to make sure there's not a second—but it will be for the better.

He hopes.

* * *

It is never 'late' in the Resistance Base, same as it is never 'early'.

Side-effects of being an alien race of mechanical individuals able to stay awake for days on end, and with varying recharge schedules.

So, when one is about to go recharge, another is just getting out of it, and even one more is just in the middle of their active cycle.

Thus, there's never a 'downtime' in the Resistance Base.

There is a time when one member or another can't be found because they are recharging, but it isn't like with humans, for whom 'nighttime' is synonym of 'graveyard shift' and 'skeleton crew'.

Crude words, using some of humanity's fears and taboos to describe a time when most of them are not even aware.

That, however, is not of his incumbency.

There's no downtime for Jazz.

There's no graveyard shift.

He carries his ghosts with him.

His arm is finally starting to get some color, with the forearm paling and the upper arm darkening, but it doesn't hide the truth.

It was lost. It _is_ lost. This one is a replacement.

But there's nothing that can fill the hole in his heart.

_"I'm sorry."_

He stops, visor offlining, as he tries to push away and pull closer those haunting blue optics and that proud and sad smile.

_"I'm sorry."_

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." Slowly, he reboots his visor and starts to walk again. "Hey! I'm talking to you, Autoscum!" Startled, he stops and turns around.

Skywarp, chest, stomach, lower legs and forearms purple to match the stripe on his wings, and the sides of his torso the same silvery white as his faceplate, scowls at him, optics flashing a dangerous red.

"What?" He asks softly, still a bit confused at the fact someone is actually talking to him.

He hasn't been avoiding anyone or hiding, but it isn't as if he's been actively searching for conversation, and the rest of the Base have caught up on that.

Minus Ratbat that one time, but that surely was a flux.

"I said you are _not_ sorry for what happened with the Quintessons." Against his will, he tenses, pain flaring from his chest. "You went to make sure the canned flesh-bags were gone, to get rid of them, and what did _you_ do? Run away and leave the others behind."

"No. No, I didn't…"

"You _ran_! You got hurt, boo hoo, and the others had to rescue your worthless aft, get you out of the fight, and they got caught up themselves while you staid unharmed!" The Seeker snarls, wings flaring menacingly. "You were supposed to go with them to help them fight! What use were you for if not for that? What use _are_ you _now_?"

"I tried." He whispers, shivering, and the Flier steps closer with a humorless dark laugh.

"Oh, congratulations! You _tried_." He spits, snarling once more. "I can try too, and Megatron and Prime can try too, but know the difference between us and you?" He stops right in front of him, poking a sharp clawed dactyl harshly against his chest plate. "We don't stop at _trying_."

"I… I _tried_." He repeats, more forceful, as he takes a step away from the Flier. "I _tried_. There was nothing more I could do."

"Really? Oh, my bad. Then I guess it wasn't your fault." His voice is a clearly mocking soft one as he straightens and puts up an obviously fake too exaggerated innocent expression. "It must have been Starscream's fault for trusting _you_." He adds with a disgusted snarl, the words dripping like acid and burning Jazz's insides.

"No…"

"Or Soundwave's."

"No."

"Oh, I know! There was only one that was supposed to know you well enough to vouch for you. So it's all Prowl's fault."

Roaring with far more rage than he has ever felt before, he punches the Seeker right in the middle of his faceplate.

Or he tries.

Skywarp catches his punch effortlessly in his clawed servo, a nasty smirk answering his irate expression.

"Want to play, don't you." He rasps, and the world _lurches_.

Once the spiral of purple and black has finally retreated and allowed reality to reform itself, they're outside, in the middle of the sandy plains surrounding the underground base, the entrance not too far away.

A moonless and cloudless night covers them, but even without the clear light from the myriad of stars, they can see easily.

Skywarp's smirk sharpens before he effortlessly lifts Jazz from the still caught arm and throws him away like a rag doll.

Unable to right himself on time, the Head of Spec Ops slams into the dust and rolls a couple of times, finally managing to get on his knees as he coughs to clear his intakes of dirt.

"Pathetic! _Those_ are your so-called fighting abilities? _That_ is the reason they took you to a vital mission with an ambush waiting to happen? To be _dead weight_?"

With a new roar, Jazz jumps to his feet and sprints to the Seeker, pulling his fist back once more before throwing himself to the ground legs first to try to trap the Flier's more delicate ones.

Skywarp effortlessly evades him by taking a step to the side.

"Useless." He sneers, and just as the black and white mech regains his footing, a fist to the side of his helm throws him back to the ground, visual flickering and audials ringing. "_You_ are the reason they're gone. _You_ dragged them down, forced them to watch after you."

"No." He pants, getting up a bit wobbly as his systems realign, Energon boiling as he snarls at the Flier. "No. It was a trap, they collapsed the ceiling on us—"

"Are you really so stupid to believe they didn't _know_? Of course it was a trap!" Skywarp cuts, gesturing sharply with a dark smile before he points back at him, losing all signs of his perverted brand of humor. "But _you_ are the reason they couldn't get out of it."

"I did all that I could!"

"No you _didn't_!" The Seeker shouts back, snarling once more as his wings flare. "My Trineleader would still be here if you had!"

The pain in Skywarp's voice hits harder than the previous punch.

"I… I…"

_"Found it! It's small, but Jazz could get through it to widen it!"_

"I tried…"

"Yes, I guess you did." The Flier sneers, all rage and disgust once more. "Starscream was always a _fool_."

"He wasn't!"

"And Soundwave, all telepathy, 'look at me, I can read a mech's processor!' And what good did it do him?"

_"Mech, you have to teach me that!"_

_"Gladly, once we're out of here."_

"But the biggest fool of all was Prowl. So many years fighting by your side, and he still _trusted_ you to accompany them? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…" Skywarp's grin sharpens, his helm angling downwards so that his optics cast a hellish light on his nightmarish smile. "Shame on me."

This time, Jazz doesn't roar.

This time, he _channels _ the ire that would make him scream into his feet and legs as he runs and jumps to be at the Seeker's height, and into his fist as he brings it to Skywarp's faceplate.

Metal collides with metal with a satisfying crack.

The Flier doesn't stumble back.

He falls down like a log, one arm flailing in a fruitless effort to keep his balance while the other covers his Energon splattered faceplate.

As soon as his feet touch the ground again, Jazz _flies_.

Skywarp rolls out of the way, getting to his servos and pedes a bit awkwardly, but getting enough leverage to meet the Head of Spec Ops halfway with his own tackle, his mass allowing him to slam the black and white mech to the ground and keep him pinned there as he pulls his own fist back.

He gets in two punches before Jazz manages to squirm enough to get the needed space to roll onto his side, dragging the arm keeping his immobilized along to further unbalance the Seeker before he manages to pull his legs out of the Flier and kick him square on the chin.

Skywarp doesn't let go of his arms, so the Head of Spec Ops twists again, tangling the purple and black mech a bit more with his own arm before kicking once more.

Right on the elbow joint.

The crack is almost as satisfying as the feeling of metal bending under his soles, as the grip on his wrists vanishing and the pained cry of the Seeker. However, the spinning kick he delivers to his helm as he whirls away from him and into a standing position is far better.

Unfortunately, Jazz hasn't taken into account the most important thing when fighting against Seekers.

Wings.

He just sees a thin sharp black streak before it crashes right into the middle of his visor, and the world disappears.

He recovers consciousness with a pained grunt, feeling dust settling on his plating, barely a second after falling to the ground from the impact, but the damage is already done.

As he onlines his visor, the world explodes in pain and sharp bursts of light.

He lets out a shout, curling into himself while trying to cover his faceplate with his servos, but knows it'll do no good.

He's damaged severely, and his opponent won't give up.

His only option—

_"I'm sorry."_

_"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…"_

"No." He whispers under his breath, listening to Skywarp's distinctive steps as he approaches his curled form.

"Poor little Autoscum. Are you hurt? Do you want me to kiss your boo boos better? After all, Prowl is not here to do it again. Wonder why that is."

"They tried to make things better." He pants, unmoving, but making sure his voice carries to the other mech. "We all did. We gave it our all. Things didn't go like we planned, our escape route was blocked, and I was the only one small enough to get out and try to widen the hole."

"Then why didn't you? Why did you leave them there, scrap metal?!"

"I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't good enough." He whispers, feeling old pain wrapping around him all over again, his whole frame starting to shake—

_"I'm sorry."_

"What was that? I'm afraid I didn't catch it." Skywarp asks mockingly, and the Head of Spec Ops' body sizes with anger, disgust and, most of all, hate.

For the Quintessons, that stripped them of their lives, that turned them into puppets, that left Jazz _useless_.

That took his family away.

"Well?"

"I wasn't good enough." He hisses, louder, frame shaking once more, though with ire this time. "The Quintessons turned me into a human in mind, a child in a Black Beast destroyer Cybertronian, and I didn't change it. I learned, I listened, I _tried_… But I should have stopped trying and start _doing_."

The Seeker doesn't answer, and, for a long moment, none of them moves.

And then, Skywarp takes one step closer, that last step, and Jazz strikes, legs curling around the spidery purple ones, heels digging into the knee joints with enough strength to bring the larger mech down with a yelp, and faster than the Flier can regain his bearing, the Head of Spec Ops is sitting on his torso, dactyls digging through tense and strong neck-cables to close around the main Energon line to the processor.

"It wasn't Starscream's fault. It wasn't Soundwave's fault. It wasn't Prowl's fault. It wasn't even _my_ fault, even if I could have tried harder and actually _done_ something. It was the Quintessons. And I'm going to make them pay." He snarls down at the immobile mech, visor still offline to avoid another wave of crippling pain, no matter how much he wants to see the Seeker's expression.

"Took you long enough."

Startled, Jazz pulls back, releasing his captive's neck, but the slightly coughing chuckle that escapes the Flier's lip-plates is sincere.

"What?" He asks, because the voice had been chocked, so maybe it wasn't really the black and purple mech, or maybe the words weren't…

"I said, 'took you long enough'. Oh, and sorry about the visor." And there they are again, as sincere and proud as before.

"This was… a test?"

"Not really." Another voice answers, and still sitting on Skywarp's stomach, the Head of Spec Ops whirls around. "This was us helping you."

"By beating me to blindness?"

"By beating some _sense_ into you." The purple and black Flier answers, wiggling a bit as he tries to sit up with the smaller mech still on him. "Though I got some beaten into me too."

"I told you, you were overdoing it." The new voice adds almost tiredly, and it finally clicks who it belongs to.

"Thundercracker?"

"Yes. Give me your servo before that idiot manages to hurt you both more than you are." Stretching an arm towards the voice, Jazz isn't really surprised to feel it clasped and himself carefully but firmly pulled to his feet. "Are you alright?"

"Can't see a thing, but I'm fine overall."

"I'm fine too, TC, don't need to worry so much."

"You know how to get to the Repair Bay." The blue Seeker deadpans, using the hand still clasped around his arm to guide Jazz back to the base, the other arm wrapping around his shoulders to offer further stability.

"Hey!" There's the sound of scrambling before a muffled thud and a yelp, and the Head of Spec Ops lowers his head ashamedly.

"I can't believe I got my aft handed to me by _him_." Thundercracker chuckles softly, the gesture more easily felt than heard. "Hey."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"No need for that."

"Yeah, we were a bit selfish too." Skywarp adds, having caught up to them in time to hear his last words.

"Selfish?"

"Starscream is a survivor. First and foremost. And he promised to look after Soundwave, Prowl and yourself." Thunercracker explains calmly, and Jazz feels his fans kick up a notch, his whole frame tensing with anticipation. "The thing you barely got out of wasn't an explosion."

"Well, it was, but it wasn't _just_ an explosion."

"Precisely."

"What was it?" He asks softly, almost a whisper, and he can feel Thundercracker's frame tense.

"It was a Space Bridge."

"A transport to another point of the universe?" He mutters, remembering what he learnt seemingly ages ago.

"Yes."

"To where?"

"We don't know."

"Yet." Skywarp pipes up, and he has the feeling the other Seeker glares at him before letting out an almost inaudible sigh.

"We don't know _yet_, but Shockwave and Perceptor are working on it. However, we know where the Quintessons are _now_."

"I'm going." Both Fliers chuckle softly, one more reserved than the other.

"And that, little buddy, is just why we had to snap you out of that depression thing." The purple and black mech answers chirpily, and the Head of Spec Ops can feel his hopes and determination grow.

"So, I'm going?"

"Of course. As soon as Ratchet has you both fixed up."

"Not my fault. How was I supposed to know he could kick _that_ hard?"

"He's the Autobot Head of Special Operations _and_ Third in Command. And you've dealt with him more than enough to know that you don't mess with him lightly." Thundercracker explains tiredly, earning a whine from his Trinemate.

"Not that this isn't really amusing—"

"Hey!"

"—but… _Where_ are we going?"

"Repair Bay."

"_After_ that."

"Quarters to recharge, Rec Room to refuel—"

"_Skywarp_. Mute it."

"No fun, TC."

"… So?"

"Cybertron."

* * *

**AN:** _Ta-da!_ Sorry if the fight scene is a bit chaotic, I think this is the first time I _seriously_ write one.

Early update because what the heck, I had it done and you were kind of angsty. Besides, I couldn't start writing next chapter because I had this one nagging at me, so this way it's out of the way, I can focus _and_ you get to clear the questions from last chapter's cliffhanger. Everyone happy!

Title, once more, from a song, this time Nickelback's _When We Stand Together_.

And some more of Linkin Park's _New Divide_. Long time no see from those, huh? ... Since the end of Part I, I believe. Huh, it _really_ has been a long time...

Rossum's Trinity is from IDW, but I have adapted it here to serve my purposes. To tell the truth, the real Rossum's Trinity (a mech can stay alive as long as the spark, processor and t-cog function, or something of the like) was something I never really bought. I mean, processor and spark I understand, but t-cog? Is it _that_ important to a Cybertronian's _continued functioning_? So, I changed it for frame and the whole 'live-source' for physical fitness. *grins widely* Another mutilated concept, yay!

By the way, I have a question: I've been thinking about updating the Genre(s) of this story, which ones would you put it under? I think maybe Suspense and/or Mystery, but I'm not entirely happy with either, and I still have another choice... So, a little help? Also, I've updated the summary. Opinions?

And thus ends Part II of _The Reality of Dreams_ *insert epic music*

**MoonWallker:** ... Hope this chapter helped clear some things up. Otherwise... want a hug? *opens arms* No worries about the review, and thanks a lot ^^

**silberstreif:** 40 chapters in... The _heck_?! You read the whole fic in one go?! ... Well, color me impressed. Wow. I hope this chapter makes the previous cliffhanger better?

'Best boyband of all times'. I can promise they won't become a boyband. I can't promise the footage won't be leaked XD The mighty Cybertronians, the race that has been in a civili war for about 10 million years and managed to make its own planet almost completely uninhabitable, singing love songs to their commanders. I think there would be more than one cry of 'insane' or 'messed with footage' XP

Aw, thank you! Me thinks it's because the summary is a bit confusing. I think it needs changing. Hope you enjoy whatever comes next (and hope this chapter answers the 'living' part).


	42. Integration

"Good morning, how are you feeling?"

Feeling the cables disconnect, he lets himself see the world.

Or what little he's allowed to see.

The pure white ceiling is the same as always.

"Fine." He answers curtly, sitting up to let his gaze roam over the room.

Pure white walls, pure white ceiling, pure white table.

Same old, same old.

"Any stiffness?"

"None."

"Nausea?"

"None."

"Sleepiness?"

"None."

The first days, it was annoying.

He even refused to answer for some of those 'days'.

He knows better now.

"Breakfast is in the tray."

He stands up then, walking to a wall, where an invisible panel retracts to reveal the cubicle his food's tray is in.

As always, it's some kind of pinkish soup with darker round blobs floating in it.

He brings it to the table, and sits down, easily starting to eat.

Once he's done, the questions start again.

As always.

He leaves the empty tray in the cubicle, and it closes.

And then, he just sits on the bed, a datapad with some books he asked for in his… _hands_.

He wishes he was dead.

The Military was destroyed.

The Protectodome fell.

He should be dead.

He should be with his family, his friends, his fellow Arkians.

He's not.

Somehow, he survived exposure to the Black Plague long enough for _Iacon_'s Cybertronian to retrieve him.

He was brought back and healed.

But no one mentions the price.

They don't need to.

Mechanical fingers clench the datapad for an instant before he relaxes their grip.

He squirms a bit in his seat, trying to get comfortable, but the light glinting off the plating of his arms distracts him.

He should be used to it by now.

But how could he, when every stray flash reminds him of what he's lost?

"Is something wrong?"

"No." He answers, not looking up from the datapad.

There's no need.

He's alone.

He always is.

Quarantined, his room is as much a prison cell as it is a coffin.

He's helping, their study of him can help develop something to fight the Black Plague, but the price is isolation.

It doesn't matter.

He has nothing to live for anymore.

His vision goes dark as pain stabs him in the back of his head.

"Is something wrong?" The monotone voice from the single speaker on a corner asks once more, mechanic so as to not recognize the speaker.

For his sake.

Getting attached to anyone would make the isolation harder.

They haven't explained, but he knows.

"Pain. Just… a flash. At the back of my head."

"Please lay down."

Without a word, he obeys, datapad resting on the night table, and feels the cables hidden under his pillow connect to the ports at the back of his neck.

The pain is already gone, but procedure needs to be followed.

Breathing deeply, he relaxes, emptying his mind to allow the machinery to do its job—

"It's happening again."

"Please stay still."

They don't need to say so, for he wouldn't move.

After the first 'days', the roars don't faze him anymore.

It's all in his mind, polluted by the Black Plague, twisted to the point hallucinations as vivid as reality itself at times take hold of him.

Like those in which he reunites with Freddy and Allan.

Or when he lies down on his bed only to be covered by his slightly tipsy children after a party.

Or sitting with his brother as they sift through music files, chatting calmly.

Or windswept desert plains under bright sunlight, watching a Tetrajet and a hover-car play tag.

Hallucinations, all of them.

Fake memories of events that never happened.

And, sometimes, of different _worlds_.

Like the time he was standing in front of a panoramic window, watching a city of lights extend as far as the eye could see, a starlit sky over it and strange crafts driving on the highways and flying through the buildings with the same ease as birds…

And incredibly gentle warm metallic arms enveloping his waist, his back resting against a smooth glassy chest as a face nuzzled his neck before moving so that they were cheek to cheek, observing the outside world.

_"How is he?"_

_"Growing stronger. It won't be much longer now, you know."_

_"I can't believe we're finally going to have our little one."_

_"I can't believe you can't believe it yet."_

Chuckles, some more nuzzling against his neck, one of the arms around his waist releasing him to caress his chest—

_"You're too good for me."_

_"No I'm not."_

Turning around in the embrace, the window at his back, metal sliding on metal with the ease of silk and the same phantom touch sensation, laying a hand on a white cheek as completely bright red eyes glow softly on it, a sweet smile making his heart fill with warmth.

_"Thank you."_

Lips moving as a bigger hand covers his, the arm around his waist tugging him closer as _security_ and _warmth_ and _belonging_ blanket him, hiding and protecting him from the world of lights and shadows on the other side of the window, forehead against forehead as his vision fills with red, no longer two different entities, but one, watching over a growing light—

_"Thank you for sharing your spark with me, S—"_

"Sanders, the examination is over."

The room is pure white, and cold and _empty_.

When the cabling retracts, he curls into himself as tightly as possible, metal scrapping against metal, naked for all the world to see, his very being feeling empty.

And cries.

There's roaring on the background, but he doesn't hear it.

He feels as if a whole life had been ripped out of him.

* * *

He's alone. The only one left.

The room is bursting with people, the sound of the chatter filling it with a wordless buzz.

It doesn't matter, he's still alone.

And it's even easier to realize that due to the wide berth all the others give him, the empty space all around him, devoid of bodies and their warmth, is as threatening to others as it is chilling to him, but the real menace is not outside.

The icy grip of loneliness and the despair it brings is not visible, not even in the void he lives in, for it is inside his chest, a gaping emptiness that grows each and every day, threatening to swallow him whole.

_Sharp wind lashes at him, peeling the outmost layer away, squirming through gaps of insulation like they're not even there, slowly freezing his joints and slowing his thought processes as his core's temperature keeps dropping, his already hampered speed decreasing with every stab of frozen air._

_But it isn't a problem, not when compared to the silent communications line, to the lack of answer that is draining him faster than the effort to keep warm and going ever could._

His steps are silent in his lonely little world, not even allowing him the small comfort of knowing he's moving towards something.

Faceless black-clad bodies all melt into darkness, further isolating him from his surroundings, strengthening the feeling, the very notion of _loneliness_.

Because he may be walking through the Simulator Room toward the exit along all the other cadets, but Steve Reeds is alone.

The only survivor of the fall of the _Ark_ Protectodome.

And the sole living being to have ever been in contact with yet survived the Black Plague.

He may have been cleared by what feels like all the medical teams in _Iacon_, but he is still quarantined, in a sense, for no human being would ever dare risk even the almost non-existent danger being in his very presence seems to be.

After all, the very doctors that take care of his check ups are wearing containment suits.

He's Tainted.

Even if the poison that's eating him is not from the outside world.

The corridor he turns into is empty, yet that makes no difference to him.

However, that allows him to hear his footsteps, and he almost stops walking altogether just to silence them, for the way they echo in the hole in his chest brings up memories of times when he wasn't alone in a crowd.

"Air Commander!"

_He stops with a small sneer, barely managing to keep his anger down, before looking back at the owner of the voice._

_He relaxes when he sees the Sanders siblings approach him, looking happy or annoyed in some degree, with the three dark-haired ones practically bouncing as they get to his side._

"At ease, kids. I'm off-duty."

"What?" He blinks at the unknown voice, and the five teenagers vanish to give way to two young men looking at him curiously.

The gaping emptiness stabs ice cold daggers into his heart, and he whirls around with a scowl to continue on his way, leaving behind the newcomers without even giving them a second thought.

"Hey, Commander Reeds, wait!"

Hurried footsteps cut short as he turns to them with a dangerous snarl, the one at the front slamming against his larger companion as he jumps back in surprise, yet, despite their startled looks, they don't run away nor fall down.

"Do _not_ call me that." He hisses menacingly.

And then, the smaller youngster, a pale redhead with almost impossibly blue eyes, smiles as he steps away from the other, and, consequently, closer to the tanned man.

So close, in fact, that the empty space that is maintained almost as if there was an invisible barrier keeping others away is breached.

This time, Reeds is the one to step away in surprise.

They obviously know who he is, so _why_?

"Aw, come on. We all know they put you back with the cadets because you needed some practice after being out of the action so long, but that doesn't mean you're a rookie." The boy answers as if he hadn't noticed him widening the distance once more, as calm and easygoing as if Steve wasn't… well, himself.

A quick look shows that his companion, a bulkier man a couple years older than the first, sandy-hair cut almost to the scalp and pale eyes obviously gray yet somehow bluish, doesn't share his confidence, fidgeting in his position in a way that tells of his uneasiness about being in the Arkian's presence.

"Why are you here." He makes it an order out of habit, their use of his previous title stirring the behavior he's been trying to push away ever since he was shoved in with the new recruits, but also because the sooner he has a reason for them annoying him, the sooner he can get rid of them.

"Are you kidding? You're one of the best pilots ever and you're _here_, why wouldn't we want to meet you?" And the larger man smiles nervously with a small nod, revealing the reason for his uneasiness is admiration instead of fear.

It's wrong.

It's so very wrong that Steve finds himself without words to answer, unable to do anything but blink and take yet another step away.

The cheery redhead doesn't seem to notice, but his companion's smile wavers.

"Besides, my friend here is a big fan of yours, and since he would've never grown the balls to come see you by himself, I decided to bring him instead."

_"I didn't—didn't want to see you… Because if I saw you, and you were injured, it would mean that Ted had been lost, and I couldn't—"_

_"—me go, he hasn't seen me yet! Please, I can't go through this again, I don't wanna—"_

_He may be scowling, but his soul is singing once more with _completion_, because he was lost, but he's back now, his brothers once more by his side after he thought them gone—_

He forces the memories away, because he knows they're not real, they never happened, Ted and Grant fell, died, and it was all his _fault_—

_"Get away from my Trine Leader!"_

"_Screamer… TC says… take care…"_

_"You… felt that?"_

_"I heard you too, didn't I?"_

"—real, not real, not real…"

"Commander Reeds?!"

He's holding his head in his hands, eyes tightly shut as he pushes the Black Plague-induced hallucinations away, but there are hands on his forearms too.

Someone's _touching him_.

All high brain functions stop, so, without thought, he slowly looks up into the brightest blue eyes he's ever seen, full with worry and slight fear and something he can only define as guilt.

Softly, and not trembling like those wrapped around his arms, one more hand lands on his shoulder.

"Sir? Are you alright?" The voice is new, but the bluish gray eyes aren't.

"Don't call me that." He whispers, finally getting his brain to work again, as he straightens and shakes the hands off of him.

The redhead looks relieved as he steps back, but his companion is analyzing him with worry.

And neither of them seems to realize, to care, that they are _too close_.

"What happened?" The larger man asks softly, eyes narrowed, and Steve turns to glare at the floor.

Yet, regardless of how much he wants to, he can't make himself walk away.

"I spent five days trapped inside my Tetrajet's cockpit, with only one ration of sludge food and two broken bones operated barely a week before. I was already hallucinating before the cockpit was breached, but… needless to say, the Black Plague exposure didn't help."

"We know that." Without realizing how, he finds himself staring into bright blue eyes, dumbstruck. "We were asking what happened _here_."

Silence.

"I thought my Wing were still alive." And there's something so wrong, so painful in those words that he clasps his uniform just over his chest with enough strength to make it pull uncomfortably on his shoulders and sides. "I saw… It wasn't real." He adds with a tired sigh, looking away once more.

"Does it happen often?" The bigger man asks softly, worry in his words, and he closes his eyes.

"Every instant I'm awake. I'm usually able to tell them apart from reality."

_"Welcome back."_

_"Good to be back. Though if there's a next time, a tap on the shoulder would be preferable to a punch to the face. __And next time you get into my processor, I'll make sure you enjoy a nice view of the clouds as you fall through them."_

_"Alright, new rule. From now on, we'll be together. No more slipping away or closing off because of a theory. Whether we rise or fall, we go together. Got it?"_

_"'Till all are one."_

He opens his eyes.

He's in a corridor, with two unknown men dressed in military black suits, looking at him with slight worry and curiosity.

He's not in a room with three of the people he failed to protect, celebrating his return to health.

That never happened.

He wasn't good enough to make it happen.

"Who are you?" He finally asks, deciding that, if they haven't gone away by now, they most likely won't.

"I'm Tom Rhodes, aka Flame Spear, and this is Kirk Wegner, Ambusher." The redhead introduces proudly, puffing out his chest.

_"Sanders?" He asks softly, a hand almost reaching for the prone man's, but stopping tremulously next to it. "It's me, Reeds. Sanders?"_

_Nothing._

_And then, not even thinking about it, Steve decides to take a leap of faith._

_"S—"_

Pain, pain pain _pain—_

"I'm fine!" His outstretched arm is literally holding the younger man away while his free hand rubs his throbbing forehead, feeling the stabbing burning sensation recede. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Happens all the time."

"And you still managed to get the highest score in all simulation practices? Man, you _are_ the best!" Rhodes exclaims, taking a step back to exchange a big smile with his awed friend.

"I don't hallucinate during practice."

He doesn't know what has compelled him to say that, since modesty isn't really one of his strongest suits.

And because that's a lie.

He hallucinates in the simulator, almost more than outside, and far more vividly.

But they're always memories of battle.

Battles in which he can't tell where the Tetrajet ends and the pilot begins.

"Then why do they still keep you in practice? They should give you a codename and get you in the field."

"The Commander must have his reasons, Tom."

"Well, it isn't as if they are sharing them."

"How do the codenames work?" He interrupts, both because he's uncomfortable with the topic and because the way they're acting is starting to remind him too much of Ted and Grant.

"What do you mean?" The redhead asks, blinking, but Wegner straightens.

"They're given to you according to your function. Since you never know which Operator will handle you, it helps avoid confusion and not getting attached."

"Operators?"

"Your contact with the _Quintessa_. Since we're a strike force instead of static Protectodome defense, each Cybertronian needs to be monitored closely, more so when you can only count with your craft's scans. And that's the Operator's job. They're supposed to look after a handful of us each, but because of the high mortality rate, we use the codenames and voice scramblers. This way, the pilots don't get too attached to a single Operator, and vice versa. Helps keep us all sane when you don't really realize who the guy behind the name is."

"Cold." He answers softly, resuming his walk with the other two by his side. "But efficient, I guess. So, why are you Ambusher?"

"He's supposed to be some kind of Black Ops and deal with Black Beast ambushes by ambushing them, but he springs all their traps instead." Rhodes answers this time, snickering.

"But I deal with them, don't I?" Wegner replies, indignant, crossing his arms against his chest.

"They should call you 'Springer'." Both younger men stop, and Reeds does so too when he finally realizes it. "What?"

"Springer." The sandy-haired man repeats, carefully enouncing each syllable, before smiling. "I like it. From now on, call me Springer."

"You can't change your codename." The redhead points out, but the other doesn't seem deterred.

"Maybe not for the official channels, but _you_ can call me that, can't you?"

"Sure thing, big buddy."

"Now, what should we call you?"

"Whoa, stop there! I already have a cool codename, Flame Spear!" But Wegner turns to Reeds almost expectantly, and, amused, the former Air Commander rests his weight on a leg and covers his mouth with a hand in a thinking gesture.

And immediately wrenches it away when he feels only smooth skin on his cheeks.

Eyes darkening, he caresses one side of his face, fingers feeling it unmarked but memory clearly remembering the rough texture and tiny bumps and grooves of burn scars.

They didn't have the right, but the Iaconian medics fixed his face, the promise to both Grant and Ted erased like nothing under the practiced hands of the surgeons.

"Commander?"

"Don't call me that." He repeats almost automatically, though snapping out of his reverie.

The other two relax immediately at his words.

"So, Tom's new codename?"

"I told you I don't _need_ a new one!"

Crossing his arms against his chest instead as he lets the current scene wash away the memories and hallucinations, Steve smirks softly.

A gesture that only sharpens when he feels a tiny thin and long thing in one of his pockets.

The younger men go silent as he calmly pulls out the datastick he retrieved before going to the Simulator to replace one he'd broken during one of his fake memories.

"What are you doing?" Rhodes asks as he envelops the pen-like object with his hands.

"Wait for it."

And wait they do, for almost a whole minute.

Seeing the redhead grow more impatient by the second, he finally releases the datastick and hands it to him.

Startled, the blue-eyed man takes it between two fingers.

"What's this?"

"How do you feel?"

"Confused."

"No, how does _this_ feel?" He asks, gesturing to the datastick.

"Huh… hot? It's quite warm, since you've been holding it, but… what _is_ this?"

Instead of answering Reeds lets a sharp smirk appear on his face.

Wegner's eyes widen for a second before he bursts out laughing.

"What? Come on, guys, what's the joke? I don't get it!"

"Your new codename!" The larger man manages to get out between guffaws. "_Hot Rod_!"

"_What_?!" The redhead squeaks, letting the datastick fall as if he'd been literally burned, the Arkian barely managing to catch it before it falls to the ground. "No _way_!"

"But it is so _you_!"

"_No_!"

"You're a hothead, always ready for a fight and the smallest of your squad!"

"I'm not small, I'm _lean_!"

"Whatever, Hot Rod."

"Don't call me that! Why do you give him ideas?!" The blue-eyed man protests, glaring at the snickering former Air Commander.

"You were the one to say the datastick was hot."

"Not fair! Don't any of you ever dare call me _that_ again! It's so… so… _ridiculous_!"

"How about Roddy? You can say I got it from your surname." Wegner answers, trying to keep his laughter to some chuckles.

"Childish." Blue-gray eyes lighten, and Reeds' smile widens beforehand.

"Oh, I got it! This one sounds epic." And, under the glare of the redhead, the larger man spreads his hands as if gesturing to an invisible banner. "Rodimus."

Rhodes almost _shrieks_ in mortification, so high has his voice gone.

"I hate you both! This is the next thing after ridiculous! This is… is…"

"Humiliating?" The former Air Commander suggests, and gets a wide smile for that.

"Yeah! Thanks! Wait—Why am I thanking you? You're the one that started all this!"

"Don't worry, Roddy. We still have to find _his_ codename."

"Don't call me _that_." The redhead hisses, almost stomping away, and the other two follow, sharing an amused glance.

"Whatever you say, Rodimus."

The blue-eyed man whirls around to growl at his friend, but his words slip off of Reeds.

A window.

_Quintessa_ is an airship, so there are windows.

However, where they are now there's only darkness to be seen. Or maybe it's nighttime?

"Commander?"

"I should be out there." He whispers, a black-gloved hand on the cool glass-metal.

He should be dead. Him, not the whole of _Ark_.

"Your scores _are_ good enough. Better than Ambusher's here."

"Springer."

"Not until you stop calling me _that_."

But he's not dead.

He may not save his family, his friends, _Ark_.

But he can avenge them.

And make sure none of _Iacon_ pay for his mistakes again.

"Who is the Commander? To whom should I talk to get on the field?"

The argument is cut short, both men staring at him with wide eyes as he turns around seriously, gaze burning with determination.

"That would be Commander Storm."

The world tilts.

"Commander…" His voice is so chocked that he doubts they've heard, both looking worried once more as he feels himself pale.

"Commander Garth Storm. He's Field Commander."

_Garth Storm_.

After the first deep breath, the rest come easily, calming his dumbstruck mind.

"Right."

"Now _he_ has a cool codename, along Air Commander Grant and Strike Commander Carter."

The floor isn't shaking, so the tremors racking his body have to come from his knees.

He has to put a hand against the wall to stabilize himself, and feels a hand grab his free arm.

"Names?" He squeaks, trying to push away the emptiness in his chest.

"Shiloh Grant and George Carter. Are you alright?"

"I… knew some people with the same surnames."

"Oh."

"Well, they always insist on using their codenames, so you won't hear them too much." The redhead adds with a smile, and that's the last he needs to push the weakness away.

"Which are?"

"Air Commander Cyclonus, Strike Commander Scourge and Field Commander Galvatron."

* * *

**AN:** *Insert evil laughter* And that's all I'm going to say. I would ask if you knew who the new guys are, but seeing what I just did, I believe it's unnecessary.

Well, there you have the first chapter of Part III. Enjoy!

**Guest:** Thanks a lot! I hope you keep enjoying, and let me know if you feel anything needs changing ^^


	43. Choosing Destiny

"Good morning, Fowler."

"Good morning, Victor."

As always, the man beams as he sits by his side, the tray with his breakfast in his hands.

"I love you, man."

"So you say."

"Good morning, Fowler."

"Good morning, Elijah, Hugh." He answers, nodding to each man as he says their names, and they both smile widely.

"We love you, man."

"I know." He smiles softly at that, more so when Hugh gets to sit on his free side while Elijah pouts.

The Spektor triplets are the only ones that ever actively search to spend time with him, but Ron can't blame them for it.

After all, he's the only person in the _Deliberata_ that can tell them apart from each other, especially because the regulation suits of an Operator are white with the inside of arms, legs and stomach a pale gray, so there's no way that clothes can help differentiate them.

He suggested they cut their hair differently, but they all like theirs as they are, meaning, identical to their brothers.

He just shrugged, huffed a laugh and turned back to his job.

He's not an Operator, which means his suit is completely white, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have work to do monitoring the Civilian half of the _Deliberata_.

Due to its special function, the airship _Deliberata_—more like a mothership twice the Military Base _Nemesis_—is clearly divided in two completely independent halves, the Military and the Civilian.

Military houses the pilots, dockworkers and a medic force twice of what Civilian's is, along the docks and shipyards, while Civilian is home to Operators, communications personnel and most of the scientists, along the bridge and the enormous control center under its comparatively small platform.

There's to be absolutely no contact between the Civilian and Military halves, and Ron couldn't agree more.

Those days with Reeds trapped outside the Protectodome before it was destroyed were some of the worst of his life.

_Silence, all around him, with only that depressing beeping sound to cut through it._

_And yet, he knows when the other comes inside._

_"Three days." The newcomer doesn't answer, doesn't make the smallest noise, and, if he didn't _know _he's here, he would have thought himself still alone. "Three days." The hand on his shoulder is warm, and reassuring, and expected, and as sad as he himself is feeling. "Three days."_

_Yesterday, it had been two. Tomorrow, it will be four._

_And, if they are lucky, there will be a fifth._

_They haven't been lucky these last three days._

_He's not expecting things to change._

_Not for the best._

_Although, who knows._

_Maybe dying _will _be for the best._

Oh, how wrong he'd been… had he? Or is that another of those accursed Black Plague-induced hallucinations?

He tries to suppress it, but the frown manages to get through as he glares at his breakfast.

It's so damn hard to differentiate reality from fiction at times…

"Want to tell us?" Victor asks calmly, and Fowler blinks himself back to the present to focus on his voice.

The triplets know of the prize of his survival, and don't care.

No, they _do_ care.

But about helping Ron clear his head of the wrong memories instead of pushing him away for what he can't control.

If it wasn't for them, he'd probably have never snapped out of his depression.

It was just… some times, Jazz and Reeds and Sanders and Prime and—

"No, thank you. It was obviously fake." He answers softly, taking a gulp of his coffee to replace the acidic taste of bile with its bitterness.

Sometimes, it's almost like they're here, alive. Like the Protectodome never fell.

And, sometimes, he feels wind and sun and a clear blue sky over him, and sand rasping against his belly as he flies over it and…

And wishes it had been real, bizarre as such memories are, because Reeds is flying next to him and Jazz is cheering him on from where he's sitting next to Sanders.

"Are you going to eat that?" Elijah asks, wrenching him out of his reverie, and, when he notices what he's pointing at, he smiles softly and pushes the bun towards the other man, who snatches it happily. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So, we were thinking…" Hugh starts, voice obviously trying to be innocent, and Fowler gives him a calculating narrow-eyed look. "We've seen you work, and not that personnel managing isn't an important job, but…"

"I'm not becoming an Operator."

"Why not?"

_Two loud beeps make them all look at the screen, where the darker-colored Cybertronian flickers some more before finally disappearing, the bubble attached to it closing a second later._

_The silence that fills the bridge is deafening._

"I can't do it."

He knows the triplets exchange a look over his head, but his half-empty mug has become so much more interesting at the moment that he doesn't feel like looking up.

Oh, look at him now, thinking like Jazz.

This_ is not the Third in Command of the Civilian Government._

This_ is not the Head of Special Operations._

This_ is not Captain Smith._

This_ is the scariest and last thing the most dangerous scum inside the Protectodome see._

This_ is Jazz._

_The visor-like blue-tinted glasses he is wearing only enhance that predatory air._

_He is not surprised when he is _not surprised_ at the warmth growing from deep within himself._

See you later, Jazzmeister. Welcome, Jazz the Weapon.

_It takes only a second after the thought for Fowler to bury his face in his hands with a defeated groan while the Civilian Third smirks widely, taking off his glasses and plopping down in the empty seat with all his usual cheeriness._

_They have been spending far too much time together, if _that_ thought has been the Second in Command's._

_A hand taps his shoulder almost condescendingly, and he knows Jazz knows too what he had been thinking, as impossible as that sounds._

_"Don't worry, boss, it won't kill you."_

It hurts far more that he could have ever imagined, to the point he grimaces and covers his eyes with one hand.

No, it didn't kill him.

It killed everyone else.

"Hey, easy man. Take it easy." The Spektor triplets whisper in unison, a hand on each of his shoulders as he takes a shuddering breath.

"You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

"I _can't_." He whimpers, even though he's slowly calming down, and the hands vanish.

When he looks up, he finds three pairs of identical glasses-wearing eyes looking down at him.

"Are you sure about that?"

And without waiting for an answer, they go leave their empty trays in the cleaning area before leaving the mess hall.

_"I _can't_."_

_"Are you sure about that?"_

He follows their example a minute later, walking to his cubicle with the same serious and no-nonsense attitude than every other day.

_"I _can't_."_

_"Are you sure about that?"_

If he slumps down when he sits at his post, no one notices.

"I'm not."

Of course he's not, but what can he do?

He won't be able to just sit there and watch others die—

_Isn't this just what you're doing?_

He stiffens, hands freezing over the keyboard, as a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sanders' whispers in his head.

_It's another hallucination. Just another—_

_Is it? Why are you hiding?_

"I'm not."

_Aren't you? Sitting there while others go out to fight your battles…_

"What I do here is useful."

_Will it help you win the war?_

"I…"

_By the time he gets there, it's over._

_The attack, the city, the brothers thought lost, the population…_

_Over._

"No… Not again. Never again."

_Then what are you waiting for?_

Next thing he knows, he's on his feet and walking briskly out of the room, ignoring his supervisor's call.

How could he be so blind as to just sit around doing nothing while he could be helping put this to an end?

The _Deliberata_ is an attack ship, not a static Protectodome. They don't stay around trying to survive, they go to the Black Beasts' nest to get rid to the problem once and for all.

And he's just sitting there doing _numbers_?

The door to the bridge opens, and, despite it being the first time he's in there, staring at the rows upon rows of monitors, four per each Operator, in lowering levels, he has eyes only for the man sitting at the top, as if in a throne, overseeing the proceedings.

Sebastien Prime.

"Make me an Operator."

Silence blankets the room, more eyes than he cares to count landing on him as the Supreme Commander analyzes him calmly.

"Now, why would I do that?" The older man asks, voice as powerful and commanding as ever, though also tranquil.

"Do it, and I'll show you."

The quietness doesn't deter him, nor does the man's inscrutable visage.

He can do this. He will. There's no use in hesitation.

And Prime knows it, as evidenced by his growing smirk.

"You. Get Fowler a uniform and the basic commands, and show him to the Simulator. I'll be expecting you tomorrow at eight sharp."

"As you command." He answers, and follows the messenger out of the room.

Before the door closes, he sees three identical faces giving him proud and happy smiles.

This time, he _will_ make things right.

* * *

With a muffled grunt, Jazz finds himself eating dirt again.

Well, eating rust actually.

Cybertron is so much more than he ever could have expected that he doesn't really know what to think about it.

Except for one thing.

Being slammed into the metallic ground is far more painful that the hard-packed dirt of the Earth desert he was in before.

He groans out loud as he sits up, just in time to catch Ironhide's shake of his helm.

"Let's stop here."

"No."

"Jazz, you can barely stand up without wobbling. That was _not_ a question. Go get those dents banged out and refuel, we'll continue next on-cycle."

"I obviously need more practice, so—"

"_Enough_, Jazz. See you later." And without another word, the Weapons Specialist walks back inside Darkmount, leaving the Head of Spec Ops sitting on the ground of the inner plaza, or whatever this place is.

"Damn it!" He scowls, banging a fist on the metal under him before getting to his feet, grimacing when he does indeed wobble. "Damn it…"

"Easy, newspark. The last thing we want is you getting banged up before you even manage to see actual combat." A gruff voice answers his grumbling, and Jazz makes a face before turning around.

"I'm not a newspark." He scowls, but the dark green mech barely notices the hint of warning in his voice, flipping through some kind of datapad. "I thought I told you to get lost, old mech?"

"I don't listen to newsparks, mechling. I'm the one that has to babysit them."

"Leave me alone, _Kup_." He hisses, spitting the Cybertronian's name as if it was a curse, as he walks past him.

"No can do. Didn't I just tell you it's my job to watch over newsparks?"

"Then find someone else! I have no time for your stupid stories!"

"The kids I'm supposed to be watching over are in Quintesson clutches." Jazz freezes mid-step, for this is the first time he's ever heard something about that. "Just like I was, and I watched over them even in there. I didn't manage to teach them anything, though, so I want them back as much as you do your friends."

"You know nothing."

"Don't I? I know the old Jazz and I never got really along, but this right now is just plain ridiculous. When was the last time you just sat back with your friends to enjoy a cube in the Rec Room without nagging about training?"

_My friends are in Quintesson hands_, is what he wants to answer, but he stops himself.

Because Blaster is here, watching over his and Soundwave's Cassettes, and Thundercracker and Skywarp are too, along most of those he knew from back on Earth.

When was the last time he just was with them?

The first clue that it has been too long is when he has to look for the answer.

"Go. Maybe you'll catch someone in the Rec Room. You need to unwind a bit, get your processor back in the here and now instead of worrying about the future. If you don't watch where you're walking, there may be no future to get to."

"Shut up, old mech." He answers, but the bite is no longer in his voice.

Kup doesn't retort, walking past him while still looking down at his datapad, muttering under his breath.

He wants his memories back, his friends and brothers, and the Quintessons destroyed.

But the situation in Cybertron is completely different than that on Earth.

There's no Protectodome here. Instead, there are some kind of motherships orbiting around the planet, coming and going through the aid of Space Bridges, with drones being dropped with shuttles or other Bridges to the surface to ransack the planet and attack the remaining Cybertronian.

Finding their stranded mechs here, on the planet, is a wild bet. They may stay on the motherships, never coming to the surface. They may not even be in orbit right now. Or ever.

If they were taken to the Quintesson's home-world, they probably won't see them ever again.

There's no hope they're even alive.

And even if they are alive, and here, and come to the surface… they may not recognize them.

There are mechs mingled among the drones, but some of them…

_"He calls himself Galvatron, an ever-loyal servant of the 'Quintesson Masters'."_

_"Are those his own words?"_

_"Yes. There are some more, two more prominent as they are commanders, too, and none of them can be correlated to any of the taken mechs. So either they were created by the Quintessons…"_

_"Or they are some of those that were taken, twisted into…"_

_"Is that possible?"_

_"If they fully replaced the processor instead of trying to reprogram it? … The Quintessons are crazy enough to do it."_

If they're alive, and here, and make it to the surface, would they still be themselves?

Of course, Galvatron and company may be completely new Cybertronians, but it seems like such a big risk for the Quintessons to take, to essentially give their enemies more manpower, that no one is really sure what to think about them, not until they manage to catch one of them to examine.

Which is one of the reasons Jazz is training so hard.

Though maybe Kup is right, and disconnecting from all that war thingy will help him. His aching joints will surely thank him.

Besides, maybe Blaster has some new data.

With that thought in mind, the black and white mech opens his comm, and a small smile appears on his faceplate as he agrees to meet the Communications Officer in the Rec Room, especially when he hears the Combaticons are there.

Swindle always has some good High Grade if one can pay the price, and Jazz definitely has the means to do so.

He'll have to find Kup later to thank him for convincing him to take a break.

A _lot_ later, because that cube the red and yellow mech puts in his servos as he enters the room is _high quality_.

The hangover will be worth it.

* * *

The _Quintessa_ is one of the largest motherships, but still nowhere close the newer and far more improved _Derodomontatus_.

It's not home, not in the way the other vessel is, but they have orders.

It doesn't mean Galvatron is taking them well, if his grumbling is anything to go by.

Though it may have more to do with who they are meeting instead of where.

Cyclonus himself is barely keeping his annoyance in check, and his leader is not helping, not that he'll be the one to tell _Galvatron_ to mute it.

As soon as the walls to the docking area close behind him, and using the moorings clasped around his hip latches as support, the Air Commander transforms and steps onto the lowering ramp, feeling the clamps release him as soon as his pedes are safely resting on the metal, allowing the latches to retract into subspace.

The Field Commander is already stepping—or more like _stomping_—to the ground, while Scourge is finishing his transformation, his Hovership mode breaking apart and rearranging as the docks' arms move him off the tracks to let him step on the ramp, releasing him to let his own hip latches be subspaced.

And to think the whole process is seen as the cockpit controls sliding aside to allow the nosecone to open for the human pilot to step out, for those of their species' treacherous older members they've managed to recover for their Masters to reprogram back in the place they should have never left…

Their Masters are obviously superior. It is such an unbelievable concept, for any of the proper Cybertronian, to even _think_ they could be anything without their Masters to guide them and give them purpose…

Really, they're actually doing the older mechs a favor by recovering them. Why do they still oppose the Quintessons to the point that reprogramming is necessary?

Glitches, all of them.

He pushes the trail of thought away as he reaches his leader's side, Scourge not far behind, and they walk out of the docks, passing drones and reprogrammed Cybertronian alike without even a glance.

Humans. Their species makes Cyclonus shudder in disgust, a reaction expertly hidden, but he has to admit their Masters made a wise decision in using them as the cover for the reprogrammed.

For the Tainted, glitched coding twisting the masterpieces their Masters created to leave crude beings with 'freedom' delusions.

What's more freeing than knowing their Masters will take care of them?

Nothing, that's the answer, and Cyclonus loves his fellow Cybertronian too much to let them destroy themselves.

So if reprogramming them into thinking themselves tiny disgusting organics is what it takes until their Masters manage to permanently get rid of the faulty coding without mangling them, then capturing them for reprogramming is what the Air Commander will do.

He owes his older frame-kin as much, for his improved and perfected design wouldn't have come to be without them.

Poor Cybertronian, glitching to the point they started fighting among themselves, destroying the very factory-planet that created them…

One of the reprogrammed laughs as he rounds the corner, talking with a drone, and while both of them snap to attention with nothing but seriousness as their Commanders walk past them, Cyclonus finds himself smiling inside, his spark pulsing warmth and happiness and determination.

It's alright now. Their Masters will help them all get rid of the glitched coding and repair the factory-planet. How can those that the Tainted have wrestled from them deny the happiness, the security they felt while under their Masters' care?

They must have been reprogrammed themselves, their glitch exacerbated once taken from their Masters' attentive watch, like those poor sparks twisted by madness, those that can't be conventionally reprogrammed to coexist with them in the motherships, confined instead to the bowels of the vessels and those sterile isolated cells until their Masters can clear their processors enough for the reprogramming to be effective.

Though some of them would be better of extinguished, so twisted have they become from the vorns of war and the addition of alien materials and concepts in both frame and processor.

To use anything less than Cybertron's pure elements to create new mechs is sacrilegious. Those sparks would have been better reabsorbed.

Yet, their Masters _are_ superior. Certainly they have means to care for ones as mangled as the imprisoned ones, ways Cyclonus can't even imagine, for they wouldn't force those poor sparks to suffer such an existence otherwise.

Besides, as long as he doesn't have to deal with them, he's happy to let them be.

"**So… what exactly are we doing?**" Scourge asks him quietly, walking at the Air Commander's left as they both stay a step behind Galvatron, as protocol dictates.

"**We're evaluating the progress of one of the Tainted to determine whether he's ready or not to be deployed.**" He answers calmly, not worried about the reprogrammed and drones they walk past.

They should probably keep their conversation to the comm lines, but it isn't like any of the Tainted can understand Flier speech.

Ah, the joys of being a Seeker frame type.

It would be better if his Wing were Seekers too, but a Shuttle frame type is almost as good. Galvatron being a Tread Roller kind of messes up the 'Wing' concept, but there's no way Cyclonus will include himself in a Grounder concept like a _three-mech squad_, not even in the privacy of his own thought processes, so he'll keep calling their unit a Wing and blind his sensors to the fact their leader needs to be carried around by Scourge when Ground and Space Bridges are not involved.

It isn't as if there's anyone worthy of Galvatron's position, anyway.

"**Why would we need to ****_evaluate_**** a Tainted? Aren't the medical and practice reports enough to clear them?**"

"**Usually.**" He answers with an almost imperceptible nod, conceding the point to his fellow Flier. "**However, this isn't a ****_conventional_**** Tainted. He's one of the Earth Recoveries.**" And Scourge's optics pale at that, recognizing the title, and thus, the situation.

Recovered and reprogrammed once, captured by the glitched and lost when the Earth Dome fell, but once more back in the correct place as the last forces on Earth fell back.

Only three of the Tainted carry the Earth Recovery title, and of those, one is among the maddened sparks secluded in the hidden cells of their motherships' bowels, though Cyclonus doesn't know which.

What he knows is that a second is a newly reassigned Operator, and the third is the one they're going to meet, and the only warmech.

They turn a last corner and find the meeting room in front of them, as well as the Tainted.

Three of the Tainted, actually, waiting just outside the door.

One is clearly a Road Runner, smaller and leaner than the others, while the bigger one has the folded wing-blades and large hover-pads of an Air-Ground Triple Changer, but the one that catches Cyclonus' attention immediately is the third, about his height but more streamlined, and with a pair of wings that, despite being hidden as they rest against his back, are all too obvious for a fellow Seeker frame type.

And that's when it hits him, with that thought.

A Seeker.

A _Tainted_ Seeker.

From the Earth Dome.

_Please, please, _please_, let it be _him_…_

"That's Field Commander Storm." The Road Runner whispers as they're finally spotted, and bright red optics turn to observe them.

"So, which one of you filled the request for a meeting?" Galvatron asks, powerful voice making the Grounder Tainted snap to attention, but the Seeker merely straightens calmly, still judging them with an intensity that shouldn't be possible without the wing sensors also reading them.

"That would be me." The Flier answers, finally squaring himself into the proper respectful stance. "Steve Reeds, former Air Commander and Second in Command of the _Nemesis_ Military Base, _Ark_ Protectodome."

Cyclonus' wings _shiver_ with delight.

_It is!_

The best Seeker their Masters have registered to date, the best _Flier_, and they _have him back_.

Just with that knowledge, Cyclonus would immediately clear him for active duty.

Unfortunately, he's not the one in charge.

"The Arkian." Galvatron repeats, a hint of the disgust he feels for all and any of the glitched slipping into his voice, aided by the fact this mech is twice as Tainted as the rest.

Judging by the darkening of those red optics, the emotion has not gone undetected.

"Yes. And unless my knowledge of it is inaccurate, the last medical report marked me as 'cleared for duty'. I believe my work in the Simulator makes it obvious that my place is outside, helping bring down the Beasts." His tone is clipped, though there's just the smallest effort in keeping his annoyance at the Field Commander's tone hidden.

It's still easily detectable, and something tells Cyclonus that it has been done purposefully.

That… may not sit well with Galvatron.

Which it obviously doesn't, judging by the way his optics darken and a small scowl makes it to his faceplate.

"_I_ will be the judge of that."

"Of course, Commander." Condescending as the voice is, the fact that the fake 'surname' is not added to the title is enough to have Galvatron's curiosity overcome his rage. "Shall we?" He adds, gesturing to the meeting room, and, without a word, the Tread Roller walks inside like he owns the place.

The other two Tainted salute them before walking away, and, before following their leader inside, Cyclonus catches his fellow Seeker's gaze.

"Why were they here?"

"I am not familiar with the layout of this ship, so I asked them to guide me here as soon as I received word of your arrival." He answers calmly, properly, no hint of the disrespect shown to Galvatron before. "May I ask your identity?"

"Air Commander Cyclonus." He answers.

And panic sets in.

He's supposed to introduce himself with his fake designation in his real one's position!

But the other Flier just nods with a tiny smile, almost nostalgic.

"Grant, right?" He can only give a nod, stunned by the lack of weird glances or confusion. "Thank you." And he walks inside, leaving Cyclonus staring after his folded back wings in complete loss and disbelief.

Thank you? _Thank_ you?! … _What_?!

He follows not a nanoklik later, keeping his features schooled into seriousness, as he ponders the strange developments.

Why would he be thanked by not giving his fake designation _like he should have done_?

It's so completely baffling that, by the time he arrives at the conclusion that nothing short of asking the Tainted himself will get him an answer, he finds himself sitting down and watching his superior officer snarl at the other Seeker.

Wait, _what_?

He reboots his optics, tuning his audio receptor to the growled words as he tries to find out what he's missed while he was lost in his thought processes.

"—dare you question my orders?!"

"I am more than _ready_ to fight, and I will not be held back by a stubborn fool!"

Oh, mech. Of all the bad things to do…

Praying for his Masters' genius to stay untainted, he turns to the screens in the hope the data he requested of the drones has been sent—_Yes_!

"According to his record—" He speaks up, putting a hand on the Field Commander's shoulder plate and _pushing_ to keep him in his seat as he gets their attention, pocking at the data on his screen to be sent to the rest. "—he _is_ battle-ready." A quick look down at the information in front of them makes Scourge's optics pale in surprise, the other Seeker's faceplate twist with a smug sharp grin, and Galvatron's rage to increase. "Perhaps we should allow him to prove his worth in a real confrontation. I will have him under my direct supervision until he proves himself."

The glare he gets at that could melt Cybertanium, but the Tainted's snort directs the Field Commander's attention back to him.

"My _worth_ will be proven as soon as I am out of this ship." The Seeker answers with enough self-assurance to bury them, and Galvatron almost literally _burns_ with anger.

"Sir?" Cyclonus asks before the Tread Roller can shoot the Flier for his insolence, taking a note to have a long _chat_ with the Tainted about what not to say and do in the Field Commander's presence.

"I want two of your Fliers assigned to monitor every _instant_ of it, as well as yourself, and even the _tiniest_ detail reported to me. Anything, even the most meaningless _twitch_ out of formation, the _slightest_ delay in following orders, the _most silent_ air intake taken without permission, and I'm having you grounded for however long you have left. Understood?" Galvatron hisses, and the Air Commander finds himself having to take his servo off his plating when the heat his anger is producing starts to hyper-sensitize his sensors, allowing the Field Commander to lean towards the other Seeker.

Contrary to his previous behavior, he is now the very definition of military obedience.

"Yes, Field Commander Storm, Sir."

Fortunately, Galvatron just stands up with enough strength to throw the chair to the ground before walking out of the room instead of blowing a hole through the Tainted's spark chamber for the use of his fake designation.

After exchanging a look, Scourge hurries to follow him, while Cyclonus remains with his new charge.

"'Short-tempered' doesn't make him justice, does it?"

"No, it doesn't." He finds himself answering before he can think about it, though he easily regains control of himself to look at the now relaxed Seeker with a disapproving look.

When he catches it, he quickly goes back to attention.

"That was uncalled for. Antagonizing him."

"I just made my opinion clear on the matter, Sir."

"Well, you shouldn't. Regardless of your previous rank, you're nothing but a grunt now. And grunts don't backtalk their commanders." The other Flier's optics darken in annoyance, but he quickly looks away to calm himself before meeting his gaze again.

"Understood, Sir. My apologies."

"It's not me who should hear that."

"I am _not_ apologizing to him." The Tainted replies, scoffing, all semblance of obedience lost.

"How did you make it to Second with that attitude?" He asks, shaking his helm in disbelief, and gets a cocky grin—before spark-wrenching grief replaces it as the other Flier looks away.

"Precisely because of it. Commander Storm—that is, _Lester_ Storm, my former Commander… He appreciated the fact that there was someone willing to point out any flaws in his planning instead of just sucking up to him."

And the idiom might be crude and obscure enough for Cyclonus to have to check it up, but there's something in not only the voice, but the way those wings shift against the back plating they're pressed against…

It slams hard, and the Air Commander almost slams his helm against the table when he realizes what he's almost missed.

"You respected him." A nostalgic small smile appears on the matte black faceplate as ruby optics go offline.

"He was an idiot and too full of himself most days, but he _cared_ for us, and he wasn't stupid enough to turn away good advice when it meant more of his men could come back after an attack, even if it made him look bad to be corrected like that. Oh, he shouted and insulted back with enough heat to be almost literally felt, but he still modified his strategies. He was a good drinking partner too. He… trusted me. And I failed him when he needed me most." His voice lowers, the smile turning to a pained grimace. "I failed them all, and I was cursed with living to carry the guilt, the weight of all those lives lost. I refuse to carry any more." His last words are strong, pain turning to determination almost faster than any other Seeker's emotions can change, optics flaring almost white. "I _will_ get rid of those Black Beasts even if it kills me. I won't let anyone else be lost because of them, not if I have a saying." Their optics meet, and Cyclonus' spark _soars_.

Here. Here is someone that loves their race as much as he does, that is as willing, or even more, as him to see them all safe and free in their Masters' care, even if he can't see things for what they are yet.

And they _will_ accomplish such a feat, just because they won't settle for anything less.

Whether it is by believing themselves to be killing monsters threatening their species, or by knowing they are recovering them to repair their glitched code, they both will keep going.

The Air Commander can only smile, and even though he knows his relief is showing, and quite obviously at that, he can't bring himself to care.

"Call me Cyclonus." He answers, extending a servo in a gesture he knows it's polite for the human the other thinks himself as, and is rewarded by a matte black clawed servo clasping it with the strength of his determination and the softness of his caring, and maybe—just maybe, and it's a _big_ maybe—he think he understands why a sensor-blind species such as the Earthlings uses such a physical introductory method.

"Steve. Do I get to pick my own codename?" The other asks, his question laced with slight hope, and the Air Commander finds himself too curious for the motivation that prompted the query to keep himself quiet.

"No. Why?"

"Nothing. Just…" Hesitation makes red optics look away and the servo release his own as the other Seeker curls a bit into himself.

"You… have a preference?" He asks, surprised at the only reasoning he can come up with for both the words and the actions, but even more when he gets a nod in answer. "Which codename would you choose if you could do so?"

"None. Nothing, it's just… No, no one." He hurries to answer, though his babbling and the fact he's still avoiding Cyclonus' optics give him away. "It isn't as if…"

"Yes?"

"There's this… _dream_ I keep having. In it, I'm with my friends and family in a party, and we've finally managed to get our serious and stick-in-the-mud Civilian Second to leave his work and sing and dance with us and… My Wingmates are there, and Sanders' kids, and… And it's nice. It feels… right." Optics still bright but lost in the middle distance, a small smile slowly growing, as full with sadness as with happiness, the Tainted doesn't even seem to realize he's lifting a servo to rest it on his chest plating, over his spark chamber. "And then there are stars, and we're talking about going back home, about rebuilding the world without having to worry about anything… And they keep calling me that nickname…"

When the silence stretches for almost a full klik, though the smile and peacefulness remain, Cyclonus leans forward a bit.

"Which is…"

"Starscream."

* * *

**AN:** Slagging Pit-damned rust-ridden scrap-heap excuse of a chapter... Two weeks trying to write it and when I finally have it all written it decides to take a life of its own and makes me _delete_ all the fragging thing to end up with _THIS_! What did I ever do to deserve this? _WHAT?!_

Dramatics aside, I don't really know what to think about this. On the one hand, I hate it. I had lots planned and nothing ended up happening in the end, which means I'll have to squeeze it somewhere else and I don't know when or how or even _if_. On the other, I love it, because it addresses other things I didn't even know I wanted/needed to make them happen. So, I'll just stay with my 'I don't know what to do with you' impression and let you all decide on your own. *tired sigh* I don't know if I should start to worry about what I have planned for the future chapters, or even the story itself, because everything seems doomed to either change or be deleted/replaced... Oh well, as long as you people have fun...

The names of the motherships are names of Quintesson Judges (the five-faced ones), because of reasons I _hope_ will have a chance of being explained when the time is right._  
_


	44. Fictional Possibilities

Today is weird.

Not because of the day itself, but because of the previous night.

The dream is still crystal clear in his mind and it felt nothing like a dream.

But it can't be reality.

Fowler is dead.

So, there's no way he somehow saw him sitting at a desk, worrying himself sick over a question that shouldn't have needed John's prodding for him to realize the answer.

Nevertheless, he can't help feeling proud and happy that he had the chance to do _something_.

There's nothing for him but whiteness and unceasing questions he has already memorized.

Perhaps that was what should've been.

Perhaps the one to survive should have been Ron Fowler instead of John Sanders.

He would have certainly been more useful than John is being, because it's obvious there's been no breakthrough about the Black Plague, and judging by the state his body is in…

Metal clinks as he clenches his fists, pushing the thought away.

He's been doing far too much thinking lately.

"Sanders, the book you requested is in the cubicle." The distorted voice tells him seemingly out of nowhere, but the Communications Officer gets up almost excitedly.

He's finished all his readings and, this time, he requested something different, something to take his mind away from what he and his life have become.

Science fiction, but as realistic as they can get. He's not a fan of overtly exaggerated tales, but he's willing to trick himself into believing the events he reads about could belong to a not so distant future.

There's a tiny inconspicuous chip in the cubicle when he opens it, and he takes extra care in grabbing it with his mechanical fingers so as to not crush it, inserting it in his datapad.

When the screen comes to life, his breath hitches in his throat.

_After the _Ark_: Nominus Prime and the Illusion of Progress_ by Megatron of _Tarn_.

He should have thrown the pad away, screeched in a tantrum worthy of Steve Reeds in a thunderous mood, or broken down crying at a rush of unbidden memories.

But he does nothing. Just stares.

The _Tarn_ Protectodome was destroyed ages ago, long before he was born, so there's no way any Tarnian could have written this recently.

Realistic science fiction, indeed.

The _Ark_ was the keeper of the historical records, and one of the main Protectodomes, only behind _Iacon_, so it isn't so strange someone from a secondary one would use an event as the fall of the _Ark_ as theme for a story.

And since those bearing the Prime surname have ended as Civilian Supreme Commanders as far as John knows, it isn't unfeasible either to use such a name for the… what? Villain? Hero?

And what kind of name is _Nominus_, anyway?

… Science fiction. Better to get to read the book first instead of trying to decipher it from just the title.

Though perhaps it's some kind of political critique, disguised as a story? After all, what need would the author have to hide behind a name like 'Megatron' if it was just a tale?

And about that name… why does it sound familiar? Has he read something from him—and he's sure it is a male behind the nickname, not a female, though he has no proof—before?

Curious and emboldened by his desire to know, he slides a finger over the bottom of the screen to move to the next page.

Blank.

Tilting his head, he repeats the movement again, and, this time, finds something.

One word.

Acknowledgements.

The rest of the page is blank.

Annoyance starts to fill him, and, for an instant, he wonders if his 'caretakers' just threw him the first thing they found without checking it first, or if Megatron was the processor-less scrap-head he was always called.

… Wait, what?

Processor-less scrap-heap… as in… brainless old geezer? Who would use such words to describe—

_"I'm telling you, completely glitched! Have you even _read_ what he's planning next?!"_

Reeds.

Pacing in his room like a caged beast, shaking his arms exaggeratedly, as if that could drive his point home better than his words, and snarling with the same rage of his blazing almost white red eyes—

No. No. That last part isn't right.

Unnaturally colored eyes aside, he's _sure_ it was Steve Reeds who said such a thing, instead of it all being a hallucination.

Though that makes it even more confusing.

If the Air Commander read Megatron's work, and _Tarn_ had fallen years before, why would he talk as if the writer was still alive?

… Perhaps he was talking about someone else?

But, no. No, he _knows_ there's a relationship between Megatron and that glimpse of his memories.

Maybe he was talking about a character and their actions in-story?

Yes, that sounds more plausible.

So, after clearing that, John turns his attention back to the datapad with newfound respect.

Steve Reeds followed this guy's work.

This weird book file is a link to the _Ark_'s Military Second.

With far more care than he showed before, he slides a finger again to move to the next page.

Preface.

And text under it.

_Finally_.

But then, the first sentence freezes him yet again.

You are being deceived.

_And the crowd roars under them, fists raised along the battle cry as they cheer their leader, the one who will finally take them out of the misery and enslavement they've suffered for longer than any of them can remember, the purple emblem on his chest giving him strength and security in the knowledge he's not alone in this, that others will be there and will help him, and the now former gladiator turns around at last, for they need to go over the last details of their plan, and he sees pride and determination in his red gaze and his confident smile—_

A blink, and there's only white once more.

And a hand clasped against his chest, but, when he looks down, there's nothing there, just the same white coloring there has ever been, despite most of his body being dark blue, and he can feel his heart constrict at the lack of a sigil he can't even remember.

He's alone now.

… No, he's not.

He has Megatron's words and the memory of Reeds.

And the feeling he _needs_ to heed whatever the Tarnian wrote.

_You are being deceived._

So, he makes himself comfortable on the berth, reassures the voice when it asks about his wellbeing, and begins to read.

He isn't more than three pages into the preface when he hears the roaring.

About to bring it up, he stops himself.

Every single time he's heard it, he has told his caretaker, and every single time, it has stopped soon after, but not before he was connected to the machinery under his pillow.

_You are being deceived._

What if he said nothing this once?

Making his decision, he brings the book to its beginning and stands up, listening as subtly as he can.

When he finally locates the direction the sound seems to come from, he walks to the wall and sits down.

"Sanders, what are you doing?"

"I'm tired of sitting on the bed and the chair. I'd like to try something different."

And, not waiting for an answer, he rests his back against the wall and props his legs up, datapad leaning against them as he reads.

Or so he hopes it looks like on the outside, because he's busy with something else.

The wall is vibrating.

Slightly, almost imperceptibly, but still noticeable.

In unison with the sounds he thought were his imagination.

Maybe they are, perhaps this isn't more than just another complex hallucination, but what if they aren't?

So, he tilts his head back and listens.

There isn't just roaring.

Sure, the loudest noise is a deep roar that makes him think of a sword made of flames and strong jaws filled with sharp teeth, but there are more.

Bleating, three spears and a shield and bad attitude.

Long moaned growling, plates jutting out of a hill of metal.

Deep wail-like sounds, a long pole rising over trees with blue light at the top.

Screeched shrieks, wings flapping with gusts of dirt and a rain of fire.

Loud short bellows, two sharp horns and a whipping tail.

Squeals and chirrups, silent engines whooshing overhead in a flash of red and yellow.

Echoing blaring, a juggernaut squashing everything in its path.

And twin roars of armored neck and sleek movements—

No, no, _no_! They're wrong, they're like—but they aren't—

_—__nothing more than a shadow slithering around the apartment in complete silence and stray glints of polished metal, and proud as they both are, there's still a question that remains unanswered._

_"How did we get a Bestial?" He hears himself ask, and _no, no, please don't let it be him—

_"Ah, well… I have this mech in my unit…"_

It _is_.

The voice he dreads and longs to hear, the one that makes him feel safe and belonging and that isn't _real_…

Why? Why does he have to suffer so?

_"I see." He hears himself answering, nodding as they watch the lurker vanish once more in the shadows of the room._

_"I'm sorry, I promise this was before I met you! I—"_

_"Calm down, I said nothing. You're free to be with whoever you want." He cuts, turning to the other one, worry and fear in red eyes as the larger being takes a step away._

_"But I don't _want_ to be with whoever I want. I want to be with _you_." The unknown creature answers softly, looking away, and this time it's Sanders who moves, stepping closer._

_"You _are_ with me."_

_"It's not that… I want to be with you, but if you didn't want to be with me, I wouldn't want to be with you either." And red eyes look up to meet his confused expression, shinning with emotions John refuses to identify. "Because that would be what _you_ want, and I would accept it with a bright spark as long as I was allowed to remember you, and feel blessed that I had a chance to get to know you."_

_His heart swells with the mix of feelings, of all the love and gratefulness and joy and disbelief, and he presses his cheek against the white metallic hand that caresses it, smiling with a tenderness that he never knew he'd be able to display._

_"I don't deserve you." He whispers, and the other leans down as John's eyes close, feeling their foreheads meet just a second after that._

_"No, _I_ don't deserve you."_

_"Does that mean I don't deserve any of you?" A third voice calls, and they separate and open their eyes again to see a strange cat-like being standing on all fours in the middle of the room, the light from outside shadowing it but reflecting on its silver legs._

_"No, but you're stuck with us!" The larger creature answers cheerfully, lowering his body as he opens his arms. "Now, how about you show us how well you control that variant of yours? Give me a pounce, Rav!" And the cat-thing does so, slamming into the white chest and sending them both to the ground with a loud clanging._

_"Was that good?" The smallest being queries, bouncing a bit on the stomach of the robotic creature lying on his back, some kind of metallic cape sprawled around him._

_But the red eyes remain black and the limbs unmoving, so John takes a step closer with slight worry—_

_And a hand wraps around his forearm so suddenly that he can't do more than squeak as he's pulled to the floor, being rolled on larger arms to end lying on his back without the tiniest bump, the white being leaning over him with the cat-like child one sprawled on Sanders' chest, purring._

_"Guess who did Rav get his sneakiness from?" The white creature whispers in a low rasp, moving closer with dark crimson eyes, and John lets his head fall back with a huff of laughter._

_"You're incorrigible."_

_"Want to try to—" The words cut with a clang as Sanders clasps his legs around the metallic waist and moves them around, one arm pressing the smaller being to his chest as he finds himself straddling the white creature and smirking down at his confused expression._

_"You _always_ forget who is the sneaky one here."_

_And the being lying under him breaks out laughing._

_"Slag, you're right. But you'll always be there to remind me, won't you, Sou—?"_

The memory shatters like crystal falling to the ground, Sanders curling into himself with a silent sob.

Why, _why_ must those hallucinations haunt him? Why must they feel so _real_?

The room always illuminated by streetlight isn't real, the cat-child being isn't real, and _he_ is most definitely _not real_!

So _why_?!

_Why_ must he always feel secure and accepted and _loved_ and _return all those feelings_ just to _lose it all_?

… _why_…

_It's another hallucination. Just another—_

**_Is it? Why are you hiding?_**

_I'm not._

**_Aren't you? Sitting there while others go out to fight your battles…_**

_What I do here is useful._

**_Will it help you win the war?_**

_I…_ _No… Not again. Never again._

**_Then what are you waiting for?_**

Fowler.

The dream.

Their conversation.

Fowler was just sitting there, drowning in self-pity, and he helped him get out of it.

And what is he doing now?

_No… Not again. Never again._

With a deep breath and the Civilian Second's voice echoing in his head, John Sanders uncurls.

"Please, get on the bed for an examination." The voice drones and, picking up the fallen datapad, he obeys.

Before lying down, though, he takes a look at the black screen, the machine having gone to hibernating mode, but he has no need for more.

He knows what is written on it.

_You are being deceived._

This time, once the examination is over, he can still hear the roaring.

So, he takes his datapad and goes sit by the wall again.

_Let's see what else can you help me with, Megatron of _Tarn_…_

* * *

The shriek not only makes Skyfire almost jump out of his armor, but he clenches the pad on his hands so tightly that he breaks it in two.

However, what follows that Energon-curdling scream is a string of profanities accompanied by laughter, so, confused, and more than a little relieved, he tries to settle his spark and turns off his battle protocols.

"What… the Pit…?" Wheeljack whispers, facemask in place and the box of material he'd been carrying now at his feet.

Hoist, as startled as them, is the first to finally relax with a huff of laughter.

Both of the Autobot scientists were more than happy to know that certain absences from the base on Earth were due to them being transferred to Cybertron, albeit some had been captured, and, fortunately for them, Hoist and Grapple were still in Darkmount.

Technically, neither Wheeljack nor Skyfire have been sent to the former Decepticon stronghold, but are here just to get all the needed data on the portable Space Bridges before returning to Earth with Perceptor to continue their experimenting, since the organic world seems to have been completely pushed aside by the Quintessons, and, as thus, is the safest place to take their science to.

Shockwave himself has agreed, and Megatron and Optimus are thinking whether to send him and Ironhide back now that they can take over Darkmount.

"I thought Sideswipe was on Earth?" Skyfire asks softly, voice trembling a bit as the shouting diminishes.

"And he is. That isn't Sideswipe, it's Jazz's new training."

Both scientists turn immediately to the green Medic, startled and hopeful.

"Jazz's new training? What is he doing to make seasoned soldiers scream like _that_?"

"Ambushes them." Skeptical looks, and Hoist's smile widens. "And he may have managed to get his servos on a recorder to play scary sounds to his victims, like, previous screams, or Matta VI's Swamp Shriekers' shrieks…"

All Autobots break down laughing at that.

"Resourceful mech, that one. Still thinks himself human?" Wheeljack asks, mask sliding back now that he's pushed aside his own battle protocols, smiling widely.

"Yup, though you wouldn't believe it some times. He's so much like his old self that you only realize he's not when he lets out some human idiom or looks at you in confusion when you talk about things of before the Dome."

"Don't you think it's strange?" The Shuttle muses out loud, putting the broken datapad in Wheeljack's box after extracting the thankfully intact memory chip. "That Jazz is the only one that hasn't recovered his memories despite being the last to be caught?"

"Now that you mention it…" The Medic mutters, tilting his helm. "It _does_ seem strange, but… well, didn't the Quintessons do something to them after they caught them? Besides what they did to the rest of you?"

"Yeah. Remember all that brain hemorrhaging thing? I bet it was some kind of failsafe they managed to trigger." Wheeljack points out, fins switching between green and deep blue as he ponders it.

"But that was just Starscream and Soundwave. And Prowl that one time, but not Jazz. And, anyway, Soundwave was the first to come back to himself."

"True."

"Perhaps they did something different with Jazz? If they knew about Soundwave and Starscream…" But Skyfire shakes his helm, cutting Hoist's words.

"Jazz was caught during the Black Day. Starscream wasn't even in the Military back then, and it wasn't until about a year before we got released that things started to go awry, so there's no way Jazz's reprogramming wasn't the same as ours."

"Maybe there were other times before that?" The white Grounder pipes up, and the other two look at him in confusion. "I mean, there were quite a bit of plot-holes in the Quintessons' plans, so maybe they noticed things were wrong before that?"

"Plot-holes?"

"The Quintessons wrote our stories, so yes, plot-holes. Per example, why did Starscream join the Military? You never told us."

Skyfire looks away, trying to hide a grimace of pain, as he remembers the discussion, the shouting, after he found his best friend and roommate packing his things.

_"You're going to get yourself killed! You can help a lot from here!"_

_"No, I _can't_! They need me out there!"_

_"You don't know _anything_ about Cybertronian! Steve, please, _stay_."_

_"No. I'm needed out there, Will. They can't hold out without me."_

_"But why _you_?! There are a lot of people in the Protectodome, a lot of Enforcers have joined them, why does it have to be _you_!"_

_"… Because it _has_."_

_"That's not a reason! Alright, alright, let's calm down. Is it for recognition, fame? You have them here, and you could have so much more if you staid."_

_"It's not—"_

_"You want to help? You're helping! That new matrix for the geothermal rotors is going to be the next 'miracle' of the Civilian Science Team, and—"_

_"It's not that!"_

_"Then _what_? What could be so important that you would throw your life away, all our lives away, just for a couple of minutes in a Cybertronian?!"_

_"… You couldn't understand."_

And Steve grabbed his bag and exited their apartment, and the sound of the door clicking shut had never been so loud.

Or so _literal_.

He'd been so angry, so _worried_… He'd even thought Steve dead after a couple months without contact, for while everyone knew there were attacks and the Military fought the Black Beasts away, such events were never announced, so that the lives of the civilians could continue their course without worry or fear.

The only way to know if there was an attack, was to be in the _Nemesis_ when it happened, or when it was of Black Day proportions.

And there had only been two of those.

Fortunately, he'd been sent to Percy and Jack's team a couple weeks after Steve left, and his companions' curious and friendly natures had immediately locked onto the fact he was hiding some kind of wound, and became set on finding out what it was and how to fix it.

It had taken almost two years for Skyfire to send that first visiting request, but the answer he received the very next day had made it worth it.

As had all the visits after that, awkward as the first had been.

However, none of them ever brought up the topic of Steve's departure from the scientific area to the combatant side of the Military.

Had he joined the Military Science Team, Skyfire would've been more understanding, maybe even followed.

But he'd gone straight to Air Force.

He has an inkling as to why, Starscream is, after all, a Seeker, a fighter and a Commander, but Steve wasn't, not back then.

And the excuse that Fliers tend to get twitchy when on the ground isn't valid, for the Protectodome was so big that their wing sensors never lacked the input that would make them long for open sky.

Against what many believe, it isn't being grounded or some kind of claustrophobia what makes Fliers uneasy and sky-hungry, but the sensory input. Their wings are practically a large sensor, so heavily seeded with them as they are, and incredibly sensitive, so, unless there's a certain degree of data being received and deciphered, energy builds up on them, making them even more sensitive, the mech twitchier and uncomfortable, to the point they would try to jump through a metal wall itself just to get airborne, the input created by flight dissipating all the charge as sensors get to work once more.

But the Protectodome was big, and the weather system made it as if they weren't really trapped under a metallic bubble, with breezes and even windy days, so there was no build up, no uneasiness, no hunger.

No reason for someone who had been completely happy working in a lab to suddenly join the frontlines.

"I don't know, Wheeljack." He whispers at last, wing partitions hanging down in defeat. "He never explained in the first place, and I never asked. Perhaps I should have done so, when we got him back."

"Aw, come on, big guy. There was time for nothing when we got Starscream back, and you know that. Some screaming topside, a meeting with the bosses, and then we were suddenly answering to an explosion and energy spike somewhere in the Protectodome. There wasn't time for anything more than literally taking a look, and you know that." The smaller scientist soothes, patting an arm comfortingly.

"So maybe there were some other instances of recovery before the really noticeable ones." Hoist muses, pulling them out of the topic of their loss. "Do you think that maybe that's why Jazz can't seem to remember who he is?"

"Could be, my mech."

And they all jump with startled yelps at the voice, immediately finding the owner as the black and white Grounder drops from the ceiling.

A quick look up reveals no ventilation shaft, no grate, no nothing, except some tubes that he couldn't have possibly fit in.

Jazz just gives them a cocky smirk at their confusion before turning serious again.

"To tell y'all the truth, I seem to have some blanks in my memories too, not to mention the fact I can't remember anything before the Black Day, and I thought I was twelve back then." The Cybertronian exchange a look at that, but quickly focus on the saboteur again as he rests his chin on a servo. "I thought that was 'cause I'd been caught then, but what if that isn't everything? What if I'd been living a life before that and they made me forget it because I'd found something out, and put those memories, and lack of, in my head instead?" Hoist seems about to crash at the possibilities, visor flickering, while Wheeljack's flashes of color from his fins tell of his overworking processor as he ponders that possibility.

"That… what makes you say _that_?"

"I met Prowler four years after the Black Day, and that's the first meeting with one of the real Cybertronian that I can remember. So, what if I had been someone else 'till then, but when they tried to erase everything, they couldn't?"

"Wha…"

"My name. Both as Cybertronian and as human, my name is the same." And the blue visor darkens slightly, completely serious. "What if there were some other things they couldn't get rid of, and that's why they gave me an already started life? I had nothing after the Black Day, and so much had been lost, including the Hall, that I knew there was no way I could find anything of who I had been. So I didn't search. What if they knew that's what would happen, and that's why they made me be who I am?"

"Holy Primus…" Hoist whispers, wobbling a bit in place.

"Aw, slag… Jazz, that's… Aw, slag." Wheeljack moans, rubbing his helm with one servo as he balances the box against his chest plates with the other.

"Have you told Shockwave about that?" Skyfire asks softly, pieces clicking in place as his processor-ache grows.

"I hadn't even _thought_ about such a thing before I heard you guys. Do you think I could be on to something?"

"Pit, yes." All three answer in unison, nodding, and Jazz grimaces.

"Well, slag."

Hoist was right. He does look a lot like the saboteur they knew, arms crossed against his chest plates and visor dark as he stares at the ground, deep in thought, with the uncharacteristic serious set of his faceplate that is only seen in really _bad_ situations.

Skyfire can only hope that, one orn, such actions won't be similarities anymore, but just the reactions of the mech they remind them of so much.

"I think I'd better go tell Shockwave about this, then. Thanks for that, guys." He tells them, his cheery attitude once more in place as he waves at them and walks down the corridor, leaving his three stunned comrades behind.

"Did we really help?" The Medic asks, and the Shuttle's wing partitions tremble.

"I hope so, Hoist. I hope so."

* * *

**AN:** Alright, first of all, sorry for the late update, Jazz's part didn't want to collaborate (I wrote three scenes before this one, _three_, and while none were wrong, none were _right_ either). However, I finally did what I do best, and managed to get it done: I chose a character POV, wrote the first line, one idea set in mind (let's show Jazz being more Cybertronian!Jazz while still being human!Jazz), and let the story write itself. And thus, I find myself agreeing with Hoist and Wheeljack: Holy Primus, Jazz, that's... Aw, _slag_.

I enjoyed Soundwave's part, too. I thought it would turn out a complete drama, but Fowler/Prowl came to the rescue XP Good ol' Prowler, trustworthy as always. And Megatron, butting in as he did (the book belongs to IDW, as well as Megatron being from Tarn). I swear I hadn't intended such a thing at first, promise! I just wanted to tackle the 'roaring' and 'dream' issues, but things never turn out as I want... though I _did_ get to show those, so I'm happy.

Now... Now, we're getting to when things turn... _interesting_... (If everything turns out as I want, that is...)


	45. Flickering Lights

'Boring' isn't precisely the word the triplets used to describe an Operator's work, but it's the one Fowler finds himself using.

Although perhaps he should say that a new Operator's job is boring.

He's, literally and metaphorically, at the bottom of the food chain.

Not only is his post in the lowest row of the Command Center, but he's one of the lowest priority Operators and has just three screens.

And since one screen is just for the 'bigger picture', showing a map of the area and the positioning of the Cybertronian he's supposed to guide alongside the rest of those out there and the Black Beasts, that means he can only take care of two crafts, which will be independently shown in each of his remaining screens.

The Spektor triplets, and all others in the three upper rows, have four screens. Three Cybertronian. A full squad.

Meaning, he has to take care of the scouts, cannon fodder and the odd lone saboteur.

That is, if he was high enough on the Operator ranks that all the Cybertronian hadn't been taken by those over him before it's his turn.

Not once in the week he's been sitting here have the two tiny lights under the screens that mean it's his turn to 'catch' a Cybertronian turned on.

Why did he leave his post in accountancy to begin with?

For the first time in a week, he lets the annoyed sigh exit his lips as he leans forward, rubbing his forehead with a hand.

There are always Cybertronian outside, usually scouts, but the occasional unit is deployed to strike on a group of Black Beasts or repel them from their monitored areas, so, more often than not, about half of the lower priority Operators are left to take care of minor things, like scan maintenance or… well… being the errand boy.

It's _frustrating_.

Maybe he should've asked to be a _pilot_ instead.

But the thought vanishes as soon as it comes.

He's not meant to be a pilot. He has no idea about Cybertronian, besides what he has learnt this past week, and he… he really isn't meant for it.

Reeds was. And maybe even Jazz, to some degree.

But not him.

Boring, stick-in-the-mud Ron Fowler was only good for dealing with paperwork.

Though the Music Night videos turned out alright, too…

His next sigh is saddened as he shakes his head to clear the memories.

No, he's a good for nothing when it comes to battling the Black Beasts. He should've never left his post for this.

_"__**Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you tip your helm gets me overwhelmed. But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell. You don't know… you don't know you're beautiful! **__**If only you saw what I can see, **__**you'll understand why I want you so desperately. Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe you don't know… You don't know you're beautiful! That's what makes you beautiful!**__"_

… No, no way, _that_ couldn't have possibly been real.

There's no way Reeds and _Sanders_ agreed to join Jazz on Music Night, least of all _sing_.

Though… it makes his heart warm comfortingly in an oddly reassuring way.

It would've meant so much work, to time it with his every tiny gesture, like the tilt of his…

Helm?

_'Till all are one._

He grunts softly, bending almost completely over his desk, as he rubs his temples, trying to sooth the sudden spike of pain.

What the _heck_ just happened?

Jazz and Reeds and Sanders would _never_ dance _for him_, they would…

They would worry, and try to talk and rope Dexter into bringing him to the Rec Room with the excuse that the twins were creating chaos again—and who are those _twins_ and why should he take care of them?—just so that they could tell him that he _matters_.

They needed him.

And he—

_"__**Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you tip your helm gets me overwhelmed. But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell…**__"_

And he tilted his head, and smiled at the ground, and jumped around and joined in their dancing and singing.

And he _had fun_.

At last, he was back where he belonged, with _those_ he belonged.

_'Till all are one._

A simple blink is all he needs to realize his sight is blurry, and, holding back a sob, he rubs a hand against his eyes to clear them of tears.

Oh, Primus, he misses them _so much_…

Why did it have to be him the one who survived?

And why did it have to be him _alone_?

He was in the Protectodome, in the _Nemesis_, those that had more possibilities of survival were Reeds and Bruticus' pilots, so _why_ couldn't any of them have lived instead of him?

… Because they gave their lives to protect _them_, and _Iacon_ betrayed them all.

Beeping accompanied by the lighting turning red pushes those thoughts away, and he quickly straightens and recovers his seriousness and focus, adjusting his headphones.

Black Beast attack, and if his map is showing things right—which it is—it's to one of their base materials mines.

Wait.

Where have all those blue dots come from?

He blinks, once, twice, but they stay there, far more Cybertronian than there should be, especially because there's no way the _Deliberata_ has deployed hers so soon after the alarm.

"Attention, a force from the _Quintessa_ will join us in this attack. As the closest ship, it falls to us to guide their Cybertronian, so _focus_!" Prime bellows from his throne-like seat, and all Operators answer affirmatively.

So _that_ is why there are so many blue dots.

It isn't unusual for a patrol to go from one mothership's range to another's in their route, and while they tend to go back to their designated one after their shift, sometimes the Cybertronian stay in other ships for the night or a couple days.

Like a lion pride, where females take care of all cubs, regardless of whether they are their own or not.

However, that's a _lot_ of Cybertronian, almost as if an attack force had been diverted to answer the Black Beasts before they could strike their designated coordinates.

The two lights under his screen blink.

For a moment, a sliver of a second, Fowler can't do more than stare.

It's his turn to catch a Cybertronian.

That simple thought pulls him in motion once more, and he readily, and slightly nervous, accepts the first transmission.

::Air Commander Cyclonus requesting two slots.::

Oh, slag it all, he gets to catch the _Air Commander_.

"Marauder acknowledging, establishing connection." He manages to answer, voice steady despite the increased nervousness and the dark pit in his chest trying to swallow him.

The Air Commander.

_Reeds…_

::Connection established. Sending data to connect Death Cry.:: And, a blink later, he has the needed link to get the second Cybertronian onscreen, and his heart constricts a bit more.

Two Tetrajets.

And while the Air Commander's is different from those he occasionally saw, Death Cry's is just like the _Ark_'s.

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the insecurity and fear away.

He's not going to fail.

This is what he's been waiting for, what he _wants_.

He can help now.

Screens finally focused on the Air Commander and his wingmate, Fowler turns all his focus to what he can see, informing his charges of the Black Beasts' positions, nature and status, as well as possible strategies and reactions, and, soon enough, what remains of the monsters retreats.

::Is that all, Marauder?:: Cyclonus asks, and, fortunately, the Arkian no longer needs to remind himself of what his codename is.

"Affirmative, Air Commander. There are no Black Beasts in your vicinity."

::Any other sector we could be of use?:: A quick look shows all pockets of resistance being swiftly eliminated, and Ron's about to say so—

When one red dot vanishes too close to what looks like a ruined building.

A second of wait shows no movement of the rest of Cybertronian towards such location, and he doubts.

::Marauder, respond.::

"There may be a still active Runner."

::May be?:: The Air Commander repeats, and Fowler grimaces.

"The circumstances of it disappearing from our scans are conflictive, Sir. There may be a crevice or cave where it was last located, and thus the possibility of it—"

::Give Death Cry the coordinates.::

He does, and while Cyclonus' Tetrajet stays in place, the other approaches the given location.

There's nothing on the main scans, but as soon as he's close enough, those of the Cybertronian detect, indeed, a tunnel.

::Marauder may have the right idea, Air Commander.:: Death Cry speaks up, voice as distorted as any other but curiously calm. ::Permission to investigate.::

::Leave the crawling for the Grounders, Death Cry. Marauder, report the location.:: Nodding to himself, Fowler reaches for the line with Sebastien Prime, to tell him of their discovery so that, with the overall data he has access to, the Supreme Commander can assign the mission to the correct team.

Before he can do so, though, something flashes in the Tetrajet's scans—

"Barrel-roll to the left!" He cries, and the craft's screen goes crazy with red. "_Reeds_!"

Red vanishes as the screen settles, the scans showing once more the empty tunnel and the undamaged Tetrajet.

::Close call, but the Runner is gone. Thanks for the heads up, Marauder.:: And he lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, a smile on his face— ::How did you know my name?::

Name?

What na—Oh.

He called him Reeds.

But… No, it can't be. Steve Reeds is dead.

"I didn't know, Death Cry. It's just… I had a friend that piloted a Tetrajet."

::I thought Civilian and Military didn't mix here?:: The other man asks, his curiosity and confusion clear in that distorted voice, and Fowler smiles sadly to himself.

Of course. Civilian and Military don't—

Here. He said _here_.

"You're not Iaconian." He whispers, hope and denial warring in his chest, as he watches the two Tetrajet's reunite with the rest of their unit.

::Too obvious, am I?:: And the chuckle is humorless, and oh _Primus_ he knows that tone—

"Steve Reeds, Military Second of _Ark_." He lets out, voice chocked, and is answered by silence.

He was wrong. Of _course_ he's wrong, Reeds is dead.

Gone.

::How did you know?:: Death Cry whispers back, and Fowler's sight blurs again.

No… it…

"It's not real… it's not real, it's another hallucination, it's not _real_…"

::Wait, wait! Hallucination? Are you… are you Arkian too? You had a friend in the Military, a Tetrajet pilot, and those_ strategies_… Fowler?::

"Steve." He whimpers, a smile on his face as he rests a hand on the screen depicting that known craft, his chest warming as if the man was right here—

::Ron.:: The other answers, and his spark finally pulses again, inactive bond flaring with disbelief and joy and love as his doorwings flutter—

_No, no, that's not right._

He shakes his head to get rid of the Black Plague induced hallucination, rubbing his eyes so that he can see clearly when he opens them—

The screens are black.

The map shows just the working drones and their guard.

There's emptiness in his chest, the same mournful feeling that he's felt ever since he woke in _Iacon_'s Med Bay.

But he still feels warm, the loneliness and pain no longer there.

"Reeds?" He whispers, but no one answers.

He hallucinated it all.

Or did he?

With some swift clicks, he brings up the record of Black Beast activity.

There was an attack, just now, and both the names Cyclonus and Death Cry are registered as present and survivors.

And his codename, Marauder, is listed as their Operator.

It was real.

But… was Death Cry's identity as Steve Reeds real too?

* * *

"Fowler? Fowler?! Ron!"

No answer.

Panicking slightly, Steve opens the comm with Cyclonus.

"I can't contact Fowler!"

::Who?::

"The Operator! Marauder!"

::The Op—Ugh. Reeds, you're not supposed to make friends with Operators!:: The Air Commander groans from the other side, and he snarls at that.

Loudly.

"He's not any Operator, he's Ron Fowler! Civilian Second of _Ark_!"

Cyclonus stays silent at that, and only the Arkian's pants are audible for about ten seconds.

::I think you just suffered a hallucination, Death Cry.::

Death Cry.

Oh, how he _hates_ that codename…

"I didn't! I could feel him, he was _real_!"

::Feel him? Do you know how crazy that sounds?::

And… it does.

He's in a Tetrajet. Marauder is in the mothership _Deliberata_. There's no way the warm feeling coursing through his body and the mitigated emptiness in his chest can be real.

But there's just one teeny tiny detail.

They _are_.

"Say what you want, but it was _him_. I'm going to the _Deliberata_."

::You're what?! Don't you dare break formation, soldier!:: Cyclonus calls, clearly serious, but Steve is busy with his scans and charts, trying to locate the mothership's exact position. ::Do you hear me? If you so much as twitch away from me, you're not getting into another Cybertronian_ in your life_!::

"I don't care. I'm going to see Fowler." He answers firmly, his scans finally pinging him the gigantic vessel's location.

::Don't move, Starscream!::

Hands over the controls, ready to modify his flight, he freezes.

_"Slag it all, Starscream, stay still! Do you want me to weld your wing to your aft?!"_

_"Mute it and get back to work, Scrapper! I don't have all orn."_

_"Like the Pit you don't! There's no slagging way you can take flight with so many burnt cabling, so stay _still_!"_

_"The drones could—"_

_"The drones nothing! The Quintessons won't be able to take us by surprise again, and even if they attacked, you're in no position to respond. So let the Autoscum deal with them for now. Onslaught's monitoring them, there's no way they will get us this time."_

_"Scrapper…"_

_"If you expect me to start respecting and being friendly with them, you can—"_

_"That wire isn't burnt, you glitch!"_

_"Oh, uh… sorry?"_

::Reeds, are you listening?:: He blinks at the new voice, startled, before literally shaking himself, the numbness spreading almost all over his body disappearing with the movement.

"I…" A tired sigh through the comm, and he falls silent once more.

::Look, I know you miss_ Ark_ and those you knew, but you have to realize that they're gone. You know why we recovered you, right?::

"Because I was outside, in my Tetrajet. I didn't fall with the Protectodome." He answers dutifully, all drive extinguished in an instant. "Sorry, Sir. I just… I really thought it was real this time."

::I know. Let's get back and rest. You did a great job, Death Cry.::

"Thank you, Sir."

And the comm goes back to standby.

With tremulous hands, he erases the location of the _Deliberata_ from his screens.

And part of him vanishes with it.

* * *

Reeds almost stumbles as he transforms to root mode, and, if Galvatron wasn't there, Cyclonus would've rushed to his side.

He looks… defeated. Broken.

It hurts the Air Commander, to see such a strong creature so empty.

This is why they need to recover all their brothers, so that no one has to suffer for losses that aren't real.

Though… could it be that their Operator, Marauder, really is the other Earth Recovery? And how did they know who the other was?

_"I could feel him, he was _real_!"_

Feel him.

A bond?

Cyclonus is much too young to know, for the only mechs he's always in contact with are Galvatron and Scourge, and never has he felt anything between them.

One would think there should be a fraternal bond, with the Shuttle at the very least, but there's nothing.

Perhaps they need more time?

... Could there be something wrong with—

_No. The Masters would never allow that. We just need more time._

Times like this, he wishes there was one of their older brothers aware of their nature, so that they could talk.

The Masters are superior, yes, but they're not like them. They are the _Masters_, after all.

But that means they can't answer Cybertronian-only issues.

"So, all was well." Galvatron repeats, scrutinizing the black Seeker slowly approaching them, muted red optics fixed on the ground.

"He's tired. There was an ambush, but he managed to deal with it. Just let him go a couple more times to get used to things again, and he'll be ready to be on his own." He answers softly, keeping his worry inside.

Perhaps he could talk to the Masters, ask about Marauder's identity? Maybe a meeting…

_Unlikely. There's a reason the Earth Recoveries are kept separated._

Yes, there is. They were more than enough trouble in the Earth Dome, apparently. And while it seems the glitched one was the problem, the Masters would rather prefer to keep all of them apart until they can confirm it.

Well, at least, if Marauder's identity is confirmed, he can ask to keep him from being Reeds' Operator again.

The other Seeker really doesn't need to go through that once more.

"Very well, Cyclonus. Keep you optics on—"

"Commander!" All three Cybertronian turn to the voice, but, to their surprise, the black Grounder and his Triple Changer companion aren't looking at them, but at Reeds, who has also turned to the approaching mechs and forced a small smile on his faceplate.

"So, how was your flight? You don't look exactly peachy." The larger newcomer points out, blue optics dimming with worry, and the Seeker straightens out of his defeated slump.

"Guess I'm not used to things yet."

"Reeds, mind telling us _why_ they referred to you as 'Commander'?" Galvatron hisses, approaching them, and Cyclonus almost lets out a tired hydraulic hiss.

Such minor issues shouldn't tickle his commanding officer so much, but the Tread Roller always takes them as personal insults.

To the Seeker's surprise, though, his Tainted frame type brother straightens defiantly, moving casually to hide the two distraught mechs behind him.

"It's a nickname, Sir. Nothing serious." He answers nonchalantly, not even twitching as the sturdier Cybertronian stops in front of him.

"You are not worthy of such a title, nickname or not. So don't you dare—" Galvatron's last words are directed at the Grounder and Triple Changer, who flinch and straighten to attention at the Field Commander's glare—

Black wings snapping up make the Tread Roller take a step back in surprise, all his attention once more on the tiny, in comparison, Tainted Seeker.

Arms crossed against his front, serious expression on his faceplates and blazing red optics a microklik away from being crisscrossed by the targeting system's paler lines and spots, Steve Reeds doesn't look too small or defenseless, though.

And the way those wings are held high and wide, uncaring about the fact he's allowing his enemy a larger area to damage, are not only signs of confidence, but also of strength.

… The way the sharp gliding flaps extend isn't too reassuring either.

"It's a _nickname_. We all know I'm nothing but a grunt, so I must _respectfully_ ask that you drop the subject, _Sir_." The Flier hisses, defiance and warning clear in his voice, and Cyclonus doesn't know if he should be horrified or awed.

Galvatron's plating fluffs out menacingly, and the Seeker reacts an instant too late.

By the time Scourge and him are grabbing an arm each to keep their Field Commander in place, the Tainted is staggering to his feet with the help of the other two reprogrammed mechs, their fear not reflected on the now dented faceplate of the stunned Flier.

One clawed black servo rises to touch the damaged cheek, and, when it pulls back, the Energon slowly dripping down the corner of his mouth is staining the dactyls.

With a sharp movement, the other two Commanders lose their grip of the Tread Roller, but, to their relief, the larger mech just straightens menacingly, not moving to strike again.

"I am your superior, you will show me _respect_. Understood, _Tainted_?" And Reeds flinches as if hit again, the other two stepping back once more at Galvatron's sharp glare.

"Respect is something that needs to be _earned_." The Seeker finally answers in a defiant hiss, wings folded back but gliding flaps rising menacingly as he returns the heated look.

This time, Cyclonus is fast enough to catch the Tread Roller's fist before it can impact.

"Sir, with all due respect, stop. This isn't worth it." He pleads, spearing the other Flier with a look that _orders_ him to _mute it_. "We have more important matters to take care of."

"Indeed." The larger mech hisses, tugging his servo free of the Air Commander's grip. "You better control your underlings, Cyclonus, or I'll _remove_ them from your command." It's a testament to his experience dealing with his superior that the Seeker is able to hide his distressed shiver, simply nodding respectfully.

With another glare to the still defiant Tainted, Galvatron turns around and leaves the docks, and only then do Scourge and Cyclonus relax with relieved sighs and tired groans.

"What _is_ his problem?" The smaller Seeker hisses, finally wiping the rivulet of Energon off his chin with the back of a servo. "Striking his own men? Who was the idiot that made him Field Commander?"

"For all you hold dear, Reeds, _mute it_. Galvatron is short-tempered, you already knew that, so _don't_ go around provoking him!" The Air Commander growls, whirling around to the deluded mech.

"He's good at his job, that's why they appointed him for it, but he does have a nasty temper. A minor flaw, we all have them." The Shuttle adds, tiredly rubbing his faceplate with a servo.

"That doesn't excuse him for assaulting a soldier, least of all for a stupid _nickname_! He should be removed from his post until he can learn to rein on his temper! Primus knows Commander Storm could barely stand me on a good day, but not even at his worst did he strike me! He simply ordered me to shut up or leave the room, and called me back to continue our discussion when we both had calmed down! Rising a hand towards another soldier is _unforgivable_!"

It takes Cyclonus a second to realize the 'Commander Storm' Reeds is talking about isn't Galvatron, but Megatron, Supreme Commander of the Earth Dome.

The three of them Commanders may be based on certain mechs their Masters managed to capture, true, and the Tread Roller is definitely derived from the Seeker's previous leader, but that doesn't mean they're the same.

Cyclonus himself is the perfect example of that, for he is a serious and focused individual regardless of the flighty and cheerful warping Seeker the Masters used as reference.

… But he doesn't have his ability to teleport, much to their Masters' disappointment.

Nor does Scourge have Theodore Carter's sonic capabilities, either, not to mention they're not even the same frame type.

They make up with the knowledge of their true natures and the reinforced and upgraded frames.

Though that brings up the topic of why there isn't a Reeds' modeled Seeker…

Oh well, they had Shawn Reeds to fill that post, anyway, and that radioactive mech was almost a clone of the Tainted.

Perhaps that's why.

… Enough speculation, there are more important matters to take care of.

"Just try not to push his buttons, alright?" Cyclonus asks, half an order half a plea, with a tired sigh, rubbing his faceplate. "Galvatron is a great Field Commander, even if his people skills are lacking, but when you know where the line is, dealing with him is easy enough."

"You know I can't do that. Respect needs to be _earned_, and, so far, all your dear Commander has from me is my contempt." The smaller Seeker scoffs, but he follows when the other two leave the docks, the Grounder and Triple Changer at their backs.

"Reeds, man, you _really_ need to learn when enough is enough." The smaller mech mutters, uneasy at the Commanders' presence, but unwilling to leave their companion.

"Yes, if you keep angering the Field Commander he's going to pull you out of the active force. And we really need your expertise, Commander." The larger Tainted adds, finally earning a reaction from the Seeker that isn't anger as the Flier sighs tiredly.

"My apologies, but… I really don't think I'll be able to deal with him."

"Just try to keep your mouth shut around him, and I'll take care of Galvatron for you." Cyclonus answers, patting a shoulder plate as the smaller mech deflates, though he gets a small nod at his words.

"I guess I can try."

"Good. We wouldn't want you going away now that you're where you belong."

Reeds stops, the other two Tainted almost slamming into him while the two Commanders turn around in confusion.

The Seeker's red optics are on the black window next to them, studying the unseen planet they're orbiting.

"Living out of cases, packing up and taking off… Made a lot of changes, but not forgetting who I was. On the horizon… well, I know, I know, I know, I know… the moon will be rising back home." The Tainted whispers, obviously lost in his processor, as a clawed servo rests carefully on the glass-metal pane.

"What's wrong with him?" Scourge asks softly, as startled as Cyclonus, and the Triple Changer turns to them with a sad smile.

"Well, you know about his exposure to the Black Plague, right? Apparently, it messed his head bad enough that he's always remembering things or hallucinating. He's usually able to push them aside, but sometimes they're too much for him to resist." The larger mech explains, and they all turn to where the Grounder is carefully resting a servo on the Flier's arm.

"Reeds?"

"Don't forget where you belong. If you ever feel alone, don't. You were never on your own…" The Seeker adds, voice growing almost too soft to hear as he offlines his optics and shudders, his field shivering with spark-wrenching grief in a reaction the Air Commander knows will look like tears to the deluded mechs.

"Hey, Commander, easy. You're not alone, Reeds, you know that." The smaller Tainted whispers, shaking the Flier a bit. "Reeds?"

"Lights off when they should be on… Even stars and the skies, they're wrong… Don't matter how far I've gone, I'll always be around…" The Seeker hisses, claws curling into fists and leaving the slightest scratches on glass-metal as the mech lifts his other servo to rub his black optics. "I… I'm sorry, I… lost myself." And the voice is strong again despite the tremors, signifying the Tainted has finally snapped out of his reverie.

"No problem, man. We're just glad you're back." The Grounder chirps happily, patting a shoulder plate, but, when the Seeker next looks up, his red optics never stray from the black-tinted window, almost as if he could see the war-ravaged factory-planet under them.

"Yes… I'm finally back."

Despite the calm smile the Flier gives his fellow Tainted and the happy chattering they exchange as the Commanders finally break away from them to rejoin their leader, Cyclonus can't help but shudder, feeling an ominous darkness settling over them.

"Is it just me, or that wasn't a full human back there?" The Shuttle whispers, looking up at the other Cybertronian with the same uneasiness the Seeker himself is feeling.

"I wish I could answer that, Scourge, I really do."

"Should we tell the Masters?"

"… Yes. We should." The other Flier stops, and Cyclonus knows he knows the Seeker too well.

"But you're not going to do it, are you?"

"No. You heard the Triple Changer, this is something that happens on an ornly basis. The Masters must be already aware and dealing with it."

"But what if—"

"No, Scourge. Let the Masters deal with it, we have other matters to tend to."

The subject is dropped and their search for Galvatron is on once more, but, despite his own words, Cyclonus feels uneasy.

_"Made a lot of changes, but not forgetting who I was. On the horizon… well, I know, I know, I know, I know… the moon will be rising back home."_

He's a Seeker, same as Reeds. He's felt things the Masters can't answer, _Scourge_ can't answer.

Like the ever-present knowledge of the factory-planet's moons positions.

_"Don't forget where you belong. If you ever feel alone, don't. You were never on your own…"_

Or the empty spaces around him and in his spark, bonds to mechs that aren't there, despite his Wingmates' always being around.

_"Lights off when they should be on… Even stars and the skies, they're wrong… Don't matter how far I've gone, I'll always be around…"_

Or the reassuring knowledge, unquestionable and impossibly precise, of where the factory-planet is, even those time he's been recalled to their Masters' home-world, or when he first activated.

He shivers again, almost imperceptibly, ignoring Scourge's curious glance, as the memory pops up again of onlining on a laboratory's table, of the scientists scanning him to make sure everything was on the green, of first stepping outside and immediately turning his attention to the sky.

Of his first thought ever.

_The stars are wrong._

* * *

**AN:** Another chapter, at last! As you've seen, I've changed the comm link/transmission 'speech', so as to make the distiction more clear. So, things are like this now:

"Normal speech"

_"Memories"_

"**Other language**"

::Comm link::

I hope this helps making the reading clearer, and I'll go back to the previous chapters to implement the new system if you think it works (so, opinions, please?).

Now, about the chapter: The snowball keeps rooooolling, and it's getting bigger and faster! Why, it even snatched Cyclonus (I swear I hadn't planned that).

However as the story has decided to get so out of the original script as it has, I can't promise regular updates anymore, not until I manage to get things together once more, so, while I fully intend to have next chapter ready for the next weekend, I'm not sure if I'll be able. So, apologies in advance.

By the by, Fowler's memory was of the song from One Direction _What Makes You Beautiful_, while Reeds' words as he remembered in front of the window are from another of One Direction's songs, _Don't Forget Where You Belong_, which was one of the songs I thought about using in the scene where Jazz, Soundwave and Reeds sang to Prowl, though it didn't happen.

Well, let me know about the new 'speech system', and hope you all enjoyed things!

**Angel Heart:** Nice to read from you again, and don't worry, things are bound to get crazy every once in a while XP Glad to know you enjoyed Hot Rod and Springer's introductions and the 'name-calling'. I must admit it was funnier than I thought, to see how 'humans' react to Cybertronian names. Plus, it was a nice way to show that the Quintessons' control isn't as firm this time, including the interactions with Cyclonus, Galvatron and Scourge.

I always thought about Megatron's back story not being simply the 'created to lead the Decepticons to conquest' one explained on the cartoon, but one more like IDW's instead, so, when I finally got to read it, I couldn't refuse it as headcanon since it was practically what I had been thinking all along. I'm glad you like it being so ^^

About Jazz: Yes, it was the second option. He was reprogrammed like all the others when he was first caught, but he somehow managed to break out of Quintesson control, and thus was re-reprogrammed stronger than before, turning him into the Jazz Smith he is now. At least, that's the Cybertronian's theory for why he still can't remember his past self.

It was really nice to read from you too, and I hope things keep going well too!


	46. False Dawn

In the end, there's nothing new. So, slightly disappointed, Optimus leaves the meeting room by Megatron's side, listening to the Decepticon's grumbling.

"Useless drones. Not able to take even a vulgar mining site."

"They were intercepted by an assault force. I doubt even a proper strike could have dealt with them." The red and blue mech points out, but the other just scoffs.

"Useless anyway."

The Prime just keeps a sigh in and lets Megatron steam.

Back into his mainly gray color scheme, though keeping some black and red markings, the Decepticon leader is a lot more like he was before the capture, back during the war. Including the bad moods.

Though Optimus is slightly proud of the fact he's able to keep him centered and deal with his anger.

Which leaves him wondering how could the Autobots be so blind so as to not realize it was Soundwave and Starscream's presence that kept the faction leader focused and thus so dangerous. Had they known, defeating the Decepticons would have been as easy as targeting one or both of them over Megatron, and let the Tread Roller's temper take care of the rest.

… Maybe that's why Starscream acted like a treacherous glitch? To make them believe he was helping the Autobots with his actions while, in truth, he was herding Megatron and draining the blinding rage?

This time, Optimus does sigh, looking away when the sound catches his counterpart's attention.

The only mechs that could answer aren't with them now.

"I was just thinking." He lets out after a moment, when the Decepticon's piercing gaze doesn't leave him.

"Want to talk about that?"

"Do you want to listen?" He returns with the tiniest hint of humor, and Megatron scoffs.

"Pit no. But I can do it if it's necessary."

"Define 'necessary'." Optimus asks, curious, as he stops in the middle of the corridor, making the other mech turn to him with slight annoyance.

"If it would make you feel better, I would listen. We need you focused on the task at hand." And he sees the excuse for what it is, but the Prime just smiles and nods, knowing better than point it out.

"I _knew_ you cared." He answers, unable to keep the amusement in despite his choice not to tick off his… friend.

Yes, friend.

Just as he knows he is to Megatron, too.

And that is precisely why the Decepticon just growls and pokes his chest plates, threatening but not actually attacking.

"Don't even _joke_ about that, _Autobot_. You've been spending too much time around that saboteur of yours."

As if automatically, they both turn around.

Jazz is standing next to the wall, almost invisible despite the fact he's not, just because of staying out of their main sensors, meaning sight, hearing and electric field.

Though how he manages the last one while still thinking himself human, none of them can explain.

Ever since that Energon-freezing possibility of the Quintessons having messed with him more than they did the others came to them, the Head of Special Operations has been following Optimus around, usually standing out of the way to the point most mechs don't even notice him, arguing that he has the feeling it's important.

Why acting like a bodyguard for the Autobot leader would have any meaning, however, eludes them all, even Jazz himself.

Though the Prime has the bad feeling it is because of his position rather than who he is.

After all, their 'leader' was called Prime too.

And that's another scary thing. The only equivalent to 'Sebastien Prime' anyone can think about is Sentinel Prime.

But Sentinel was deactivated at the start of the war, nine million years ago.

Does that mean he was a drone, made from who knows what data, or a Quintesson?

And to think Optimus called him 'father'…

The red and blue mech can barely hide a shudder at the thought, focusing instead on his surroundings.

Jazz is serious.

Standing completely still, visor almost offline so that its light doesn't catch attention, and deadly serious.

That's not right.

While he has been quieter these last days, and far less happy-go-lucky ever since they left Earth, he has never been as immutable as he is now.

That can't be good.

"Jazz?"

Nothing.

"What's wrong with him?" Megatron asks softly, stepping towards the saboteur.

The smaller mech simply tilts his helm up to look at the gray one.

"Jazz? Is something wrong?"

"No, Sir."

That voice.

Dead, mechanical, _not_ Jazz's.

But it has come from the Head of Special Operations.

Megatron and Optimus exchange a look.

Is it good news, Jazz remembering something his human self shouldn't know, or is it bad, him reverting to whatever the Quintessons turned him into that none of them are aware of?

Only one way to know.

"What is your directive, Jazz?" The Prime asks, as calm as he can, and the smaller mech straightens to attention and looks forward, to some point behind Optimus' shoulder.

"To protect my leaders against any and all dangers, Sir."

Another exchange of looks, and Megatron steps next to his counterpart to stand as tall and regal as the red and blue mech.

"And who are your leaders?"

"Deliberata, Kledji and Sevax, all of them known as Sebastien Prime."

"Slag."

Regardless of who has said it, or even if it's been said at once, Optimus knows him and Megatron share the same opinion.

Because three names being used to refer to the same, allegedly human creature means that it wasn't a drone behind their 'leader' but Quintessons, and more than one at that.

Which also explains why they found a dead Quintesson under the Civilian Government Building but there were more of them around.

Three of them to be more accurate.

One dead, another presumed so after the Space Bridge that took Starscream, Soundwave and Prowl, but another still active.

Or maybe all three dead…

"What did they do?" Megatron asks, getting Prime out of his musings.

"Govern the _Ark_ Protectodome to ensure energy production and resource collection, as well as recovery of stolen goods."

The Decepticon hisses at being referred to as nothing more than items, but he doesn't do anything, standing still as he tries to calm down.

"What about those… stolen goods?" Optimus asks after a moment, unwilling to hear about that, but unable not to.

This trance Jazz is may be their only chance at knowing how to reverse the saboteur's condition.

"The retrieved slaves were to be brought into the Dome's underground facilities for debugging and analysis on the damaged coding that destroyed the loyalty clauses. Until such an event is cleared, modification of the sensory net and installation of fake memory data will be used to maintain the slaves controlled."

"They want to reprogram us. They want to turn us into their—their tools. Permanently!" The gray mech exclaims, as horrified as his counterpart, and the look they exchange this time is of despair.

If they haven't managed to 'repair' the enslaving coding, reprogramming them into completely new individuals could be a solution.

Which means that Galvatron and any other mech under Quintesson control _could_ be those they have lost.

"Oh Primus…"

"Ravage?" Startled, both leaders turn to the still immobile saboteur, who is now looking at the ground. "Oh, you poor mech… what are they doing to you? I know you can't hear me, but don't worry, I'll get you out. I'll get all of you out."

"What the—Didn't they _reprogram_ him into a human?"

"I just need to find the control room to break this freaky processor-control, and we'll get out of here. Now, that scientist creep went that way, so if the holding cells are down that _other_ way… this means I have to go _there_."

"I—I don't _think_ so… I think he was… faking?" Optimus answers, as unnerved as Megatron but as unable to look away as the other, even when Jazz… _smirks_.

That dangerous smirk that meant deactivation to anyone it was directed to, and that the Prime saw in less situations than dactyls he has attached to a servo.

That is _not_ his Third in Command, or his Head of Special Operations.

That is the Jazz of before the war.

The kidnapper, torturer and spark extinguisher under the Senate's direct orders.

The monster hiding in Jazz's shadow.

The only being to ever terrify the usually unflappable saboteur.

And the Quintessons brought it back.

It is with plain to see fear that Optimus steps away, uncaring about Megatron resting his servos on his shoulder plates, for, as reassuring as a gesture it is, it does nothing to mitigate the horror growing in his spark.

The Quintessons didn't take Jazz away, oh no.

They did much, _much_ worse.

They brought the old Jazz back.

But before anything can happen, the smirk vanishes.

The saboteur is tense, serious and emotionless once more, but… something else.

Stiff.

Battle-ready.

"Jazz?" The Prime whispers, far more worried than before, because it's when the mech is serious that the Head of Spec Ops is deadlier, but who knows how the old Jazz was?

_The only one who does know isn't here to tell us._

"Got slagging far enough, didn't I?" The saboteur hisses, snarling, dactyls twitching almost expectantly, as if preparing to rip something apart with his own servos. "You sure?" And he's smirking again, and this time even Megatron moves back. "But that's where you're wrong, canned meatball. Because, you see, we've been trying to get rid of those Cons for millions of vorns, tried to subdue and control them, and not even slavery could turn them into slaves. And _you_ have turned us all into Decepticons, into rebels ready to do anything for freedom. Megatron will _obliterate_ you. And Prime… He's broken free of moronic idiots that tried to be leaders before. As for me… You can't break what's already as badly broken as I am."

No word, no sound, no sign.

Jazz just drops offline as soon as the last word is out, threatening smirk completely gone.

It feels too long before Optimus puts himself together and reaches for the saboteur, only to find him recharging peacefully.

"Oh, Jazz… I'm so sorry…" He can only whisper, clutching the smaller mech close before he takes him in his arms and stands up. "You believed in me, and I failed you… I failed all of you…"

"This isn't the time to assign blame, and even if it was, you're doing it wrong." The Decepticon leader cuts, firm and strong. "The only ones at fault are the Quintessons, and we _are_ going to make them pay for thinking they could enslave us. For turning my—my mechs into those _deluded_ mockeries of themselves."

Friends.

Whether the word is said out loud or not, it is still clear and easy to hear.

And Prime nods, blue optics blazing.

The Quintessons hurt his friends, his family, dared go so far to even _reprogram_ them.

He's not violent at spark, but even as he carries Jazz to the Repair Bay to have him scanned, Optimus feels the urge to feel Quintesson flesh be ripped to pieces by his own servos.

He just keeps quiet and pushes the urge away, back into a crevice of his processor, until the time for it to be satisfied comes.

And when it does, he's not going to hold back.

* * *

"They're acting weird." Jazz whispers, and Blaster just hums questioningly as he takes a gulp of his own cube.

'They' are not here, in one of the main Rec Rooms, but that doesn't mean the Cassette Carrier doesn't know who the Head of Spec Ops is talking about.

"As in, they're giving me those searching glances when they think I'm not looking, or that I won't notice. It's creepy. Almost like they thought I would just start acting like a madman."

"Madmech." Blaster corrects, though it's almost automatically, so Jazz doesn't take it into account. "And what, exactly, did you do _this time_ to make them think like that?"

"That's the thing, I did nothing! … Well, not that I remember." Blue optics turn to look at him in curiosity, and the black and white mech turns to stare into his Energon. "You know how I went with Prime to that last meeting, about the last attack of our drones?" A nod, seen from the corner of his visor, and the Head of Spec Ops risks a look up at the Communications Officer. "Well, that's the last I remember before waking up in Shockwave's lab."

"Weird. You mean you don't know what happened then? Not even a clue?"

"Nothing at all, my mech." He answers with a shrug, once more looking down at the cube in his servos.

And feels his chest constrict at the lie.

But… he can't tell Blaster.

He can't tell anyone.

Because he refuses to think of what happened between the meeting and his awakening as anything else than a hallucination or some sickening nightmare.

_A large room, so brightly illuminated that it seems as if he's in the only shadow in it, plain and unremarkable when compared to the vividly colored beings sitting in the light and speaking with rich voices._

_He's not part of them, part of the situation, part of anything._

_He's on a mission, and it just happens that such mission is in the room he never belonged in._

"Nothing at all…"

_A narrow alleyway, so dark that the almost nonexistent light on his servos seems the only one capable of surviving there, even though it's already dimming, bright and sparkly pink liquid turning dull as the energy coursing through it vanishes like the life of the frame at his pedes did as soon as his dagger pierced its chest._

_He makes sure to leave nothing behind, on the alleyway or the victim._

_Only one thing._

_That accursed purple emblem his leaders want eradicated._

_"_Let the population see that their saviors are nothing more than the vilest of scum._" They said—ordered, actually—when he was sent out to do what he does best._

_Dirty his servos for his betters._

"Nothing…" He whispers, trying to keep his nausea and disgust at bay as he drains his cube in two large gulps.

That was the only memory of its kind where he wasn't smiling.

The simple thought of feeling his lips curving into a satisfied and proud expression as charged Energon dripped down his plating is more than enough to almost make him throw up the liquid he's just ingested.

The euphoria rushing through his veins as the bright optics of the decapitated head on his servos grow black makes him throw it away with a roar—

And a yelp, as the movement makes him lose his balance and fall backwards from the bench, Blaster getting to his pedes next to him with a curse as the thrown cube smashes into pieces against a wall.

"Jazz! Are you alright?" The Cassette Carrier asks, kneeling by his side as the Head of Spec Ops rolls to his knees, the whole room silent—

Servos almost on him, worried blue optics, bright yellow and red color scheme—

Blaster's a friend. So why does he feel like he's about to—

_"I thought we were friends!"_

_"We don't make friends." He answers with a wide smirk, and terrified amber optics go black as he rips the main wire out of the many neck cables, dirty brown and black plating turning gray. "We make corpses."_

"Get away from me!" He shrieks jumping away from the brightly colored mech, pressing against a wall as he curls into himself. "Get _away_!"

_Ice blue optics find him as soon as the door closes, even though he hasn't seen the doorwings move._

_"You might as well come out and refuel. We could talk more comfortably that way." Deep and smooth voice, one servo gesturing to one of the chairs as the mech gets to the dispenser to fill two cubes._

_"I'm not in the habit of chatting with those I have to deactivate." He returns nonchalantly, but the other doesn't react._

_Not as expected, at least._

_Instead, he moves the Energon to the table and sits down behind the desk, giving him a curious look with a tilt of his helm._

_"Is that so? What am I going to be deactivated for?"_

_"Who knows? Even when they decide to order me to do it, I'm never told those things." He answers with a large and sharp smirk, straightening with pride._

_"Good point." Calm and collected, but this time the doorwings twitch, albeit in a curious gesture rather than disturbed or scared or worried._

_A white servo pushes the cube closer to the still unoccupied chair, the offer blatant without saying a word._

_And he's the one to tilt his helm in curiosity this time._

Pede-steps, fast and approaching with determination, and he whimpers silently and curls further into himself, and away from the others he can feel hovering well out of reach.

"Go away." He pleads, not looking up, as he covers his forehelm and visor with his trembling servos, his shivering still too weak for his plating to cling together. "Please, _go away_."

"Jazz, it's me Ratchet. I'm here to help."

_He lets out a bark of laughter, lounging on his seat, back against an armrest and legs crossed over the other, despite the reproaching look of the other mech in the room._

_"Help? With what? No, don't answer. Better question: like _that_?" More laughter, and the disapproving look vanishes with an inaudible sigh, all the agreement he needs. "Yeah, get why I had to deactivate them?"_

_"You didn't _have_ to."_

_"Wanna know what I would've been ordered to do had I not deactivated them? 'Cause, let's be sincere here, we both know the swift deactivation I gave them was a mercy compared to what would've happened had they been allowed to continue. Well, what I would've done to them had I let them function. For a while." He finishes with a satisfied purr, holding a servo up against the light to rub at the splotches of dried pink liquid still staining his dark dactyls. "Do you think I need a waxing? I think all these Energon baths are starting to damage my color nanites, and I'd hate to look dull next time I'm sent to extinguish some-mech. If I'm to be the last they see—as long as I'm allowed to let them see me—I'd rather look nice."_

_"You weren't—"_

_"Sorry, I meant next time I'm sent to _thank_ someone that wants to help me. That'd be one way to thank them, right? I wouldn't make them think they're about to be deactivated by a reject, thus sparing their pride. And you said I couldn't be merciful." He adds with a sharp grin, letting his helm loll to the side to look into yet another reproachful glare. "What?"_

_"Be as morbid as you wish, but spare me the attempts at humor. They're not funny."_

_"Not my fault you don't have a sense of humor."_

The mech kneels down at his side despite his attempts to curl away from them, so he does the only thing he can.

Kick Ratchet away into the semi-circle of observers, who recoil sharply as he gets to his pedes with a snarl.

"I said go away! I don't want to deactivate you!"

_"Really?"_

_He stays silent, serious for the first time in much longer than he cares to remember._

_"No. I _wanted_ to deactivate them."_

_"But you didn't."_

_"But I _wanted_. They're dangerous, they could…"_

_"Make things change?" The other mech whispers, moving closer with those silent and almost imperceptible pede-steps of his._

_"Yes." He whispers, finally looking up into icy blue optics. "I-I don't know if I could…"_

_"Change?" He supplies, receiving a nod, before stopping in front of the uncharacteristically quiet mech._

_"I am what I am, who I am, how could someone like me _be_ in that future?" He asks, voice almost down to a whimper, as he stares down at his black servos. "But… I am what I am, who I am, so how could I _not_ let the future _be_?"_

_"And _that_ is why I'm here." A white servo rests on his shoulder plate, making him look up into no longer icy blue optics. "You have the data, and I put it together. You are what you are, and you are who you are, but you _are not_." He tenses in surprise and badly repressed fear, but the servo doesn't go away, and the optics don't leave his visor. "You are not the same mech I first met, because that mech wouldn't have thought an instant about the consequences of deactivating anyone, and you _did_. You've changed, Jazz. And that means that no matter what comes, you will adapt."_

_And, as a smile appears under those understanding blue optics, a grateful one grows on his own faceplate, body losing the tension that kept it stiff and ready to snap._

_"Yeah. Yeah, I will. So long as you're there to let me know, 'kay, Prowler?"_

_"Prowler?"_

_"It's a nickname. Friends give each other nicknames, don't they?"_

_"I'd rather they did not." The Praxian deadpans, earning an exaggerated pained look from the other black and white mech._

_"Ouch, right through the spark. That's cruel, Prowler."_

_"Just Prowl, Meister."_

_"Wha?"_

_"Didn't you just say friends give each other nicknames?"_

_They both break down laughing, and everything is fine again._

When Jazz finally manages to look up again, the Rec Room is empty, though he's sure the monitor room is full and all cameras are tracking him.

He doesn't care.

They're not here.

Feeling drained, he rests his back against the wall and stretches his legs, letting his helm fall back.

And his visor is turned off.

"You said I could change. You never said I would go back to what I was. I'm sorry." He lets out, voice the same emotionless sedate tone of his memories, before a large and sharp smirk grows on his faceplate. "Should've never changed in the first place, so that I could spare everyone the pain when I got back to what I was… but then again, I guess I never changed at all. Deactivating everyone would've been merciful, and you know I was never that." The smirk vanishes. "I wish you were here to bring me back to that, though. I liked not liking deactivating mechs."

_"You've changed, Jazz. And that means that no matter what comes, you will adapt."_

"So you said. But I told you, I need you here, Prowler. I don't want to be myself anymore."

_"You are what you are, and you are who you are, but you _are not_."_

"Then what am I? Who am I, Prowler?" He whispers, curling into himself once more.

_"Just Prowl, Meister."_

"I don't know what that means anymore…"

* * *

**AN:** Jazz, why you no cooperate?! *enraged shrieking* Stop doing what you want, I don't know what am I writing anymore! *sobs*

Alright, alright. I'm calm(er) now.

The Quintesson names are canon, with Deliberata being from the 1986 movie, and Kledji and Sevax from the original comics (I think).

About the rest... well. No words here. Except for specifying that Jazz isn't his Cybertronian self yet. Not fully, at least.

And that's all for this chapter. Next: ... No idea *sobs*


	47. To Move Forward, You Must Go Back

The book is bizarre, and even after re-reading it twice, John can't decide whether it's science fiction or a political critique.

It should be the first, what with it describing a society of transforming robots organized by whatever they change into, but…

It feels like the second.

There are names in there that he doesn't know what to make of.

Iacon, Tarn, Vos, Helex… They're Protectodomes.

Were, most of them.

And then, the surname Prime, which is used in the text as some kind of title obtained when the new leader is chosen by God, or something, and gifted something called a Matrix of Leadership.

And _Ark_… _Ark_ is the name given to a certain type of spaceship meant for deep space exploration during extended time periods.

A _spaceship_.

That, along the transforming robots society, should make the lecture clearly science fiction.

But he can't, literally can't, make himself think of it as such.

Because, after all, in his hallucinations he lives with, and is, one of such creatures.

And he has been having them for far longer than he first read Megatron's work.

He tries to focus now, when he finds himself in the room forever facing the night sky and the bustling city, but he hasn't managed to get the names of the other two beings, nor of whatever they call him.

Yet, they feel so real… sometimes, they are more real than the white room he's confined to.

Except, of course, when he hears the cries from outside.

He told his watchers, when they asked, that he didn't hear them anymore, and, judging by how nothing has changed, they believed his lie.

He takes advantage of that, and the fact they no longer ask why he sits against the wall, to concentrate on them too.

And he's making some progress, at least identifying them.

So far, he's sure, despite any information to corroborate it, that he's listening to dinosaurs.

A Tyrannosaurus, a Triceratops, a Stegosaurus, an Apatosaurus and a Pterosaur.

And how he even knows what are the names of each creature is another mystery, but, so far, he hasn't managed to get anything from it.

He hears them quite often, especially the first two, but, at times, they're making a ruckus all at once, or almost all of them. Those last times are when he hears them be afraid.

But they're not the only beings outside, because there's more roaring.

A Tiger, a Lion, a Bull, a Rhinoceros and an Eagle, to be precise.

It's when he hears the first two that he most often finds himself back in the room with the robots, usually with just the tiny child-like one that transforms into a cat-like creature, but, sometimes, there's the large one with them.

At first, he tried to push the memories away, but he no longer does so.

It hurts, to hear and see and _feel_ those beings, but the pain is _real_.

And thus, is something he can focus on, to make this existence he's been cursed with bearable.

He no longer flinches at the light bouncing off his plating.

He's human, yes, tainted as he's been by an alien substance, but at times, he feels at home with his robotic body.

He suspects it's because of those memories in the darkened yet clear room.

So, from time to time, he focuses not on the roaring or the hallucinations or Megatron's words, but on himself.

On his frame, as the Tarnian calls it.

And on the pulsing of his spark, of that mass of energy that feels like his metaphorical heart.

He's human, but, at times, he's a robot too.

A mech.

A _Cybertronian_.

Ah, there's something new.

Yes, Megatron calls the robots Cybertronian, because they are natives of the planet Cybertron, but John has never felt himself accepting it before, not like he has accepted the fact that the dark room and those in it are real.

Or were.

Curious.

Almost curious enough to distract him from the darkness around him, the stars overhead and the bright flashes below as vehicles make their way and robotic beings move on the sidewalks.

Huh. This is not the dark room.

It's the same world, stuck in perpetual night, but he's never been on a balcony before, least of all one so big.

In fact, he's sure the room _doesn't_ have a balcony.

There's the muted roar of turbines, and John looks up at the three jet-like vehicles, slightly larger than him, slowing as they approach.

And, with some elaborate and elegant twists, they change, the robots gracefully stepping on what he now knows is a landing pad.

The one at the front is the one that catches most of his attention, if not because of his mostly white and red coloration, with some blue on hands and feet, because of the haughty attitude, like a politically important figure.

All three look almost identical, with wing-like plates on the sides and back of shoulders and some kind of spine-like large rods growing upwards on each shoulder, but they're easily distinguishable.

The blue one at the obvious leader's right looks serious, almost solemn, like he's here out of duty and nothing else, and his eyes are naturally paler, more orange than red.

The black and purple at the left of the white one doesn't bother with appearances, his boredom and annoyance easy to see in his deep red eyes as he glares at John.

But none of them speak, standing back as the one in the middle, slightly smaller than the other two, approaches the not-human.

His face is dark, eerily illuminated by his bright red eyes, as if to contrast the purity and light of his white coloring, as if to show to everyone that yes, this is a wolf in sheep's clothing, don't let the brightness blind you.

And thus, John doesn't let himself be fooled by it.

There are some kind of weapons mounted on the upper arms of the two standing back, and even though there are no visible ones on the white one, the not-human knows _he_ is the most dangerous of them all.

After all, he can only hear static from him, while the unvoiced thoughts of the other two about his presence being something to be wary of and how better off they would be flying someplace else are more easily heard.

Not clearly heard, of course, he can only get a glimpse of what they're feeling, but that's more than enough to piece together what they're really thinking.

But he can't even get that from their leader.

Without no say in the matter, like an observer in his own body, John finds himself bowing to the white robot, one arm extended to gesture inside the building.

"Welcome. Senate: Waiting." He hears himself say, voice a metallic and emotionless drone. "Guards: Stay."

"What?!" He hears one of the two further away exclaim, but that's all.

When he straightens, he sees that it is because their leader has a hand lifted in a gesture for silence.

"They will stay." The voice is slightly higher-pitched, but is not exactly unpleasant, its soft rumbling probably having something to do with it.

And while the guards look clearly uncomfortable or angered by that decision, John finds himself focused on the white being.

He sounds… familiar.

"I assume you will be the one showing me the way?" The leader asks, almost regally, as he lowers his hand.

"Affirmative."

"What of them?"

And John finds himself blinking in surprise, as if the answer to that question should be already known.

"Guards: Stay." He repeats in the same monotone, and the black and purple one grimaces while the blue one looks resigned.

"No. I know how Iacon views us. I won't have them perched on this balcony like dynametal ducks waiting to be shot down."

And while that makes no sense in a way—because what is a dynametal duck?—it is completely understandable after knowing of Megatron's writings.

So John tilts his head, as if considering his options.

There's crackling in his head as he finally straightens.

::Viewfinder: Attend guests on landing pad 3.:: He hears himself not-say, and an equally emotionless voice answers with a simple affirmative.

"Guards: Tended to by Aide. ETA: 2 kliks." He informs the white being, who nods and rests his weight on a leg, clearly not going anywhere until he knows the other two will be taken care of, looking more curious than haughty as he analyzes the not-human.

"You never introduced yourself."

John barely keeps a startled jolt hidden at that, something telling him that it isn't usual that important mechs like this one ask for his name.

Or for anything that isn't about their own needs and comfort.

However bizarre the question, though, it's his job to answer.

"Designation: Soundw—"

A pained gasp as he clutches his head between his hands, the sound of a pad clattering to the ground and roaring barely at the edge of his hearing.

When he looks up again, he's back in the white room, alone, with his watcher asking him to go back to his bed to let himself be checked.

He obeys without protest, careful to keep his mind blank as they probe it—not that he can _feel_ the probing, or even be sure that is what is being done, but taking into account his small discoveries, he's leaning towards that.

As soon as he's released, his brain is working overtime again.

He has a name.

A robot name.

Sound-something.

And, despite being incomplete, it feels far more real than anything else he has ever experienced outside of these hallucinations.

So, picking the pad with what has become his favorite lecture, Sound sits back against the wall to go over Megatron's writings again.

Because there's truth in them, and he's determined to unearth it.

And there's also the issue of what Reeds was referring to in that—

_"I assume you will be the one showing me the way?"_

The white jet-robot on the pad.

But a young yet talented pilot, barely fresh out of basic, as they met for the first time when Sanders came to pick him up to take him to his future wingmates.

Steve Reeds.

Steve Reeds is the white robot.

Or was.

Will be?

No, not the future tense, because they know each other already, and…

Reeds is dead.

… Or is he?

_After all, he can only hear static from him, while the unvoiced thoughts of the other two about his presence being something to be wary of and how better off they would be flying someplace else are more easily heard._

He closes his eyes—or whatever equivalent to make his sight go black—and rests his head against the wall, concentrating on the soft chirping of the Eagle and the Pterosaur's cawing.

He heard the robots' thoughts.

Minus Reeds'.

So, maybe…

_Fear, worry—family?_

_Care, strength, hope, hidden fear._

His eyes snap open again.

Those… weren't thoughts, but feelings.

Like what he felt from the two guards.

So, unless he's hallucinating again, he _can_ really hear others' thoughts and emotions.

… Thought they bring with them a pulsing headache.

Keeping a grimace hidden, Sound relaxes against the wall.

He'll take a break, and try again when the pain isn't so intense.

And then, maybe with some practice, he'll find a way to figure out just _what_ is going on.

* * *

Penultimate trial run, if Cyclonus' estimations of how long it will take to convince the Field Commander of Reeds' efficiency are correct, is over and done, all crafts once more docking in the _Quintessa_ to let the pilots out.

Steve walks out slowly, calmly, stretching his arms to get rid of the stiffness after a long and boring patrol without absolutely nothing happening.

Well, nevertheless, if it helps him finally gain some independence, it'll be worth it.

According to the Air Commander, the Arkian is more than ready to be on his own, but Galvatron—he refuses to even think of him as _Commander Storm_—wants to be one hundred percent sure.

That, or he just wants Reeds to be under watch every single time he's not in the mothership.

_Incompetent idiot…_

Yet again, the former Air Commander calms himself down with thoughts of his possible freedom being closer the longer he follows orders like a good grunt.

No matter that, at times, he feels like biting off his own tongue would be the only way to keep him quiet.

Oh, how he longs for the day he'll be able to speak his mind without the threat of being permanently grounded hovering over his head…

Yes, some strategies are good, but others…

It's like watching _children_ play soldier.

Cute, a matter of laughter… but for the fact it costs lives, and he can't just walk up to the kid and say 'hey, have tried doing this?'.

It's immensely frustrating.

"Reeds!" Startled out of his thoughts, the tanned man turns to see an incredibly cheerful redhead and his inseparable companion approach. "Man, come on, let's celebrate!" Rhodes exclaims, grabbing his arm and tugging him out of the docks.

"Celebrate? Celebrate what?" He repeats, freeing himself from the smaller man's grip but following in curiosity.

"We're in Soldier!"

"What's Soldier?" The Arkian asks Wegner, usually the calmest of the two and the one that actually remembers things are different here than in Reeds' native Protectodome.

This time, though, both of them look equally startled.

"You don't know?"

"If no one tells me, how am I supposed to?"

"I mean, you've never seen a Cybertronian transform?"

And _that_ clears some things.

"You mean the Triple Changer models, like Springer's? Of course I have, but what does that have to do with this Soldier thing and _both_ of you being accepted?"

"And you must be Steve Reeds." Surprised at the new voice, all three turn around.

There's a woman in pilot uniform standing in the middle of the corridor, standing to Rhodes' height, meaning almost a head and a half smaller than the former Air Commander, with extremely curly platinum hair held back by a bright pink hair band.

Somehow, that colorful item, coupled with her self-assured smile, gray-blue eyes, and the proud and light way she carries herself, make the Arkian _really_ nervous.

And not in the usual 'boy meets hot girl' reaction.

More like 'unarmed guy finds large dog' scenario.

Who knows if the beast will turn out to be an inoffensive pet that just wants to have its head rubbed, or a wild creature that could kill him at the briefest thought.

"We haven't been introduced, so allow me to. I'm Elvira Swan, I lead a Special Operations Ground Team." The woman adds, calm but still with controlled cheerfulness, and, as he shakes the extended hand, Reeds finally allows himself to relax.

Special Operations. That explains his initial—and still present—feeling of wariness.

It took him a while too to avoid jumping every time he saw Civilian Third Jazz Smith.

And… that's not something he really wants to think about.

"Steve Reeds, former Air Commander and Military Second of _Ark_. But you already knew that." He returns, and she gives him a simple nod as answer. "I'd like to say I'm a Tetrajet pilot, but right now I'm feeling like a rookie."

"Yes, you're the talk of the month." Swan responds with a soft chuckle. "There's a bet going on about how long it will take Commander Storm to let you fly solo. You're certainly good enough for that."

"Cyclonus thinks one more outing will suffice, and I really hope he's right. It's becoming… claustrophobic, to be watched like that, if that makes any sense." He explains with a scowl, earning a curious look from the woman.

"You're on a codename basis with the Air Commander? That's like being on a first name basis with everyone else." She points out, and Reeds can't help but straighten with a cocky grin.

"I'm that good."

"I'm sure of it. So, you don't know what Project Soldier is?" She asks, more calm and serious than before, and the Arkian is all business once more.

"Not really. Rodimus and Springer here were about to explain, though."

"For the last time, don't call me _Rodimus_!" Rhodes whines, pouting, while Wegner snickers.

"My apologies, Hot Rod." Reeds answers with what one would call a sharp grin, and Swan has to cover her mouth to keep her laughter silent.

"I don't want to know how he got that nickname, do I?"

"It's nothing bad, he just held a data stick." The former Air Commander explains, ignoring the squeaked pleas to shut up from the redhead as they get moving again towards the mess hall. "_And_ when asked what it was, he said it was a hot rod. So, it stuck."

"You tricked me into that!" The younger man shouts, pointing at the Arkian accusatively.

"We offered you an alternative." Springer pipes up, smiling cheerfully.

"As if Rodimus is any better!"

"Rodimus, huh? Well, I like it." Swan muses out loud, leaving the other two pilots mute in surprise. "It has this ring, like power and respect…"

"What? You mean, you wouldn't mind being called Rodimus?" The redhead stutters, trying to get his brain working again, and the woman laughs.

"Of course I would, I'm no 'Rodimus'. I'm one of a kind." She answers, straightening with her hands on her hips and head tilted down, her strong smile and sharp eyes highlighted by the shadows on her face—

_—__lying on the ground, immobile by that piercing stare as a hand lifts a gun to point dead center at his cracked chest armor, and oh _slag_ gotta fly, gotta fly, gotta get away from—_

"Elita One."

"I like it."

Reeds jumps with a startled yelp, rounding to press his back to the wall as he faces the smaller yet far more dangerous creature—

That's staring at him in surprise and slight worry.

"Ah, don't worry about that, he sometimes gets lost in thought." Springer speaks up, approaching the woman as the Arkian takes a couple deep breaths to calm down.

What _was_ that?

"Oh. Well, no harm done." She answers with a soothing smile, and it's only by force of will that Reeds relaxes.

Elvira Swan is no enemy, she won't try to rip off his wings and blow a hole through his chest, she—

_… __Steve, _stop_ thinking, you're making no sense._

He groans softly, closing his eyes as he rubs his forehead to cast away the memory—_not_ a memory—of the creature ready to kill him, so that he can focus on the present.

"Commander Re—"

"_Don't_." He hisses, and Springer gives him a sheepish smile in answer. "Now, you were about to explain that Soldier thing…"

"Right. Come on first, let's get some food and seats." The woman answers, renewing their walk once more, and staying silent until the four of them have occupied a table with their respective food trays in front of them after they get to the mess hall. "Well, Project Soldier is a higher step for pilots, in a way. Those that are deemed skilled enough and get included in it have their Cybertronian modified so that they can adopt a second, or third, in Triple Changers' cases, form. A humanoid form."

_The softly growing rumbling of engines makes them quickly turn their gazes to the sky, easily locating the origin when they spot the two aircrafts flying towards them, one easily recognized as a Tetrajet, a vibrant yellow stripe on each wing, while the other is unknown to them in shape, but not in color scheme._

_For they have only seen one flier that sports the same shade of vibrant green as the leading plane._

_They lower themselves to be almost touching the ground, their speed decreasing drastically as they near the group of grounded mechs._

_And, when they are almost on top of them, their nosecones tilt to the sky and they—_

_Change._

_Whirring and clicking fills the air as the crafts transform and, a couple of seconds after it begins, the modifications end to reveal—_

"Shawn."

"Is he lost in thought again?" He hears Swan ask, curious and slightly worried, but Reeds is no longer paying attention, the sight of a yellow-marked Tetrajet turning into a smug-looking robot the only thing in his mind—

Until he feels Cyclonus enter the mess hall.

Without wasting a second, he stands up and turns around, striding purposefully to the startled Air and Strike Commanders, ignoring the voices calling him, eyes locked on Shiloh Grant's brown ones, his curly hair far shorter that Sky's and meticulously combed back, his face clear of any stubble, which only emphasizes those almost regal high cheekbones, brought out even more by the man's tendency to look serious most of the time.

When he stops in front of them, both Commanders move a step back, unnerved.

"Shawn, my brother. He was in Soldier, wasn't he?" He asks, even if he's mentally berating himself, because there's no way the memory is anything but a fake, and if he'd been in such a Project, his younger brother would have surely gloated about it.

"Who?"

"My brother! Shawn Reeds, radioactive Tetrajet?" And that seems to ring a bell, because the two men straighten in realization. "He was, wasn't he?"

"I can't say, I don't really know all those who were there, and with the codenames—"

"Sunstorm." He cuts, the same security in his voice than in his stance, despite this being the first time he's ever heard or pronounced such a name.

That doesn't make it any less real.

"Reeds, I _don't know_. How did you learn about Soldier, anyway?" Cyclonus asks, carefully not looking at Scourge despite looking at him.

If that makes any sense.

George Carter is shorter than the Air Commander, about the Arkian's height, thus making him smaller than Ted, and even though he shares the same facial structure than his late Wingmate, his tousled short black hair and his moustache and goatee make them completely different.

Yet, his pale brown eyes are exactly the same shade Ted's were.

"We told him." Elita One answers from behind Steve, and, if he hadn't felt her approach, along Springer and Hot Rod, he would have probably jumped again. "It came up in the conversation, and since he didn't know, we explained."

"Very well. Thank you, Captain Swan." Cyclonus responds with an appreciative nod, before, somehow reluctantly, turning to look at the still determined Arkian in front of him. "I suppose you're going to ask me to get you in."

"Precisely."

And the Air Commander groans tiredly and covers his face with a hand.

"It's not that simple. And, right now, it's impossible. You're still in probation, and—"

"You could get me in the simulator, see if I'm worthy of it. You know how good a Tetrajet pilot I am, would you give me a chance if I was anyone else but myself?" The Commanders grimace at that, almost looking guilty for an instant, and Steve snarls. "I'm never going to get out of probation, am I." Not a question, and the two men exchange a worried look, this time plain to see. "Where's Galvatron."

"Oh, no. You're not doing that again, you're—"

"Where _is_ that pitiful excuse of a leader?!" He shrieks, startling Cyclonus into silence. "Very well. I'll find him myself."

And, without a second to think about his actions again, he shoves past the Commanders and strolls determinedly into the corridor, listening and feeling for that hum of power that follows the Field Commander everywhere.

But, since he finds no sign of him, he takes one direction at random—

Cyclonus grabs his arm, effectively stopping him, having used the moment Reeds spent looking for what isn't there to catch up.

"Stay still, and that's an order!" He growls, glaring down at the Arkian with pale purple wings hitched high on his back.

His brain finally catches up with him, reminding him obedience is something tested in his probation, and Reeds brings his own wings down to rest against his back once more.

Wait, wings? Nuh huh, he has no wings and neither does the Air Commander, it's just his now settling annoyance that made him look larger than he is.

"I… just want to do the best I can for all of us. How can I help when I'm being kept in such a short leash?" He asks softly, earning a tired sigh from his superior officer.

"Look, I'm trying to convince Galvatron, and I think I'm making progress, but I need you to stay in line so that he doesn't go back to—so that he sees that you are as trustworthy as I know you to be. Give me some more time, alright?"

"I'll try." The Arkian answers with a sigh of his own.

"Good."

And the Air Commander turns away, ready to go back to the mess hall, and thus misses Reeds' sharp smirk.

"Cyclonus?" The man stops, his shoulders tensing slightly in a 'what now' gesture, most likely because of his _almost_ innocent voice. "Would you like to learn how to do a barrel roll at ground level?"

The other pilot has turned around so fast that the Arkian barely managed to follow the movement, looking like a kid being offered as much free candy as he wishes.

"Are you going to teach me?"

"Sure. We're all comrades here." And the happy face falls, finally identifying the grin on the tanned man's face. "On one condition."

"No." Cyclonus answers, tone as cutting as a blade, and turns around once more.

"Static barrel roll." Reeds calls in a sing song tone, and the Air Commander freezes mid-step, almost literally twitching.

As the taller man's shoulders lower in defeat, Steve lets his smirk bloom into a large triumphant grin.

_Gotcha._

"You. Are an _evil_ creature."

"Why, thank you." He purrs in answer, beaming under the glare directed at him. "Where did you say the simulators of the Project Soldier were?"

"… After eating." The Air Commander grumbles, and, deciding to allow the man-child to keep a sliver of dignity, he agrees with a nod and follows back into the mess hall.

* * *

**AN:** And back to the not-humans. We're making progress, but is going nowhere as fast as I hoped... Let's see if I manage to get some action in next chapter...

So, about this... More characters, yay! Guess who is who? (Elita doesn't count, that Starscream always revealing their identities...)

Also, I realized as I checked the chapter that I named the humanoid-Cybertronian-transformation 'Project Soldier'. I swear it was because that's what came up, and what fit better because, essentially, the vehicle-like Cybertronian are turned into actual soldiers, but, as a _Final Fantasy VII_ fan, I can't promise I wasn't influenced by _their_ SOLDIER. So, there, just in case my brain made that connection without me realizing.

**Angel Heart:** Jazz's a complicated character, and my brain chose to complicate him even more, to the point even I, who already knows what happened/is going on with him, feels hurt in his behalf. I really hope he gets better soon, too (though I have ideas, and this time it looks like I'll be able to write them with minimum modifications, so, if everything turns out as I hope, he _will_ get better).


	48. Rebirth

Ron Fowler has had some bizarre dreams in his lifetime, but this… this one takes the cake.

To begin with, it isn't even a full dream, it's like a recollection of scenes, moments in the lifetime of an individual that carries his name.

But that didn't always do so.

Lying on his bed, lights out and gaze lost on the ceiling, the former Civilian Second of _Ark_ ponders the strangest scenes.

A large city bustling with activity at nighttime, though the creatures roaming through it aren't human, but winged robots. Some have proper wings, or long panes on their back or arms that look so, but most show short wing-like appendages, twitching and swirling and moving like a dog's ears, to express emotion.

That time, Ron is standing at a corner, simply observing, before being approached by a couple of wingless robots asking for directions, which he gives with a smile on his face.

Strange, but he did some street cop jobs like that back in the Protectodome, so he chalks it to some bizarre perversion of a real memory and moves to the next.

A large and exquisitely adorned office, a big mostly red robot sitting on the chair behind the desk, reading some pads Fowler has just handed him, when a knock on the door makes them both turn.

The newcomer is yet again another mechanical being, this one with body adorned with golden and silver filigree and walking as if he was king of the world. He makes himself at home on one of the chairs and starts talking about some kind of meeting of worldwide leaders, or something of the like, and points to discus and how glad he would be if their esteemed Prime would agree with him on this or that…

Yet again, that part of the dream could be another modification of a real meeting, especially because of the name Prime being used to address the red robot. Ron served two men called Prime, back in _Ark_, and, if he was to utter a guess, he'd say the metallic creature was supposed to be Sebastien.

So, disregarding it, he once more moves on to the next scene.

And this one is, like the others, not strange… except for one thing.

He's in what feels like his office, looking over some reports he can't recall now, when, suddenly, there's another in the room.

The black and white robot sitting calmly and properly on one of the chairs in front of him, not reaching for any of the pads or even looking at them with that blue visor of his, is obviously Jazz.

Even if he doesn't know what the _obvious_ is.

Because if that being is Jazz, he doesn't know Jazz anymore.

The creature is serious, silent and almost impossibly still, the visor barely glowing to the point that he goes unseen even in such a bright room as his office.

And while the Civilian Third could have put something like that out…

There's something wrong with _this_ being.

"Is it my turn?" Fowler asks, calm as usual, but the robot doesn't even twitch.

"No." Not-Jazz answers simply, so the former Commander-in-Chief turns off his pad and puts it aside, turning all his attention to the eerie creature.

"Then, what can I do for you?"

"You were waiting for me."

"I heard rumors."

"The Senate should be trusted unconditionally."

"Only fools disregard hearsay because they think they're safe."

Despite the words exchanged and how somber the situation should be like, there's no tension, no darkness.

And, finally, not-Jazz grins, sharp and wide and completely insane.

"True. You're a good choice for your position. Almost too good, in my experience." The black and white being chirps, the same happy tone of the Head of Special Operations Fowler knew, but so obviously not him…

"Are you going to report my possible dangerous position so that you can get rid of me, then?" Ron asks without worry, without fear, even though he can't help but feel horrified at the creature that a part of himself recognizes as his best friend.

"Where would be the fun in that?"

And yet, the same part that calls this monster Jazz, is sure that he's not a threat, despite all of Fowler's instincts screaming to get away from that… _beast_.

There's some more inane chatter, about the results of the last race, a new beverage released a couple days ago, and what variety of crystals is easier to grow while still being the most stunning. And all the while, minus that last conversation, that makes no sense, the part of Ron that was real then isn't afraid of the unstable creature sitting in front of him, while the observer trapped in his past body pleads to be swept away.

The real horror, however, is how, as the conversation goes on, Fowler starts to see the Jazz he knew as this not-Jazz relaxes, becomes more comfortable, more open, more… _human_.

Unwilling to dwell more in that nightmarish scene, the former Civilian Second shakes his head and focuses once more on the ceiling, recalling yet another part of his strange dream.

War.

Lived in first person.

And not as a pilot.

He's in a ruined building, with some robots he doesn't recognize, all of them silent and, one could say, _gloomy_.

Defeated.

And there are no few dark glares in his direction.

But even though he is aware of them, he doesn't acknowledge them.

His brain is overworking, and he's not suffering a headache for it.

In fact, there are so many calculations, so many strategies, that he can barely understand one when he's dealing with three more the next instant.

It's _crazy_.

But it's working.

Soon enough, he's giving orders out to grumbling soldiers, uncaring about the insults of him being an emotionless computer.

The only time he reacts, is when a smaller purple and orange one outright refuses to obey when he orders a gray winged other to a clearly open position.

Then, he can feel some kind of appendages on his back flare open as he glares down at the rebel, but the soldier he's ordered to the indefensible location calms them both down by acknowledging his orders without a fuss.

And, as they all move, he takes a gun from empty air and aims to where he sent the bait.

As expected, as soon as there's movement on that position, shadows fall from the sky.

And while the decoy shoots one of the jets down, it seems the others are about to end him anyway.

That's when he shoots.

And the aerial crafts' engines explode as the acid from his bullets melts them and reacts with the parts inside.

The rest of troops that had been approaching, attracted by the ruckus, are easily neutralized by the other soldiers he strategically positioned.

When they regroup, it's in the middle of destroyed frames and broken parts, without a single scratch more than when he put the plan in motion.

As the robots transform into vehicles and rush away, Fowler finds himself turning to a ripped off wing lying close by, and kneeling by it to rest an armored hand almost tenderly on its blackened surface.

"I'm sorry. I'll try harder next time." He whispers in a language unknown, before standing up and leaving the carnage behind.

That… is a cryptic dream if he has ever had any.

Ron doesn't know what it means, or why the winged gray being reminds him of Drew Philips, and he's not sure he wants to know.

Which is why, with a shudder, he thinks about another strange part of his dream.

This time, there are humans in it.

_Tiny_ humans.

That, or he's a giant.

But, seeing how his surroundings are all normal, if orange and a bit strange, he thinks it's the human boy who is the wrong size.

He's a chatty teen, if… well, really small, but he finds himself listening intently as he explains the rules of football. Ron knows them, but the Fowler of back then, apparently, didn't.

"So, what do you say of refereeing a match between the Dinobots and some of the guys?"

"That would be an interesting experience. Very well, I'll act as the referee." He answers with a nod, and the boy beams.

"Great! Oh, and Wheeljack made that whistle…"

"Has it been tested?"

"Of course it has, and it hasn't exploded!" The teen laughs, and Ron finds himself smiling down at him.

"One can never be too cautious."

It's a short but nice scene, and, despite the weirdness that is the tiny human and his lack of knowledge about football, and the feeling that he knows this 'Wheeljack' even if he hasn't ever heard the name before, Ron finds himself smiling at the ceiling as he recalls it.

Strange, and maybe too much orange for his liking, but nice nevertheless, especially when compared to the ones prior.

Or the one that follows.

He's on the ground, rolling in the dirt as he tries to dislodge the larger and heavier thing pinning him down, face-less black head straining closer as if to bite despite the lack of mouth—

A roar from above, and the puppet-like robot is thrown off him.

The winged white and red creature, with forearms, forelegs, hands and feet blue, snarls at where the black mechanical being is sprawled on the ground, smoke rising from its chest.

"Put yourself together! Either that, or you're staying off the field next time!" His apparent rescuer shrieks, taking his armored black forearm to pull him up, and he winces at a sharp pain from his back.

At his grimace, the menacing snarl on the robot's dark face and red eyes turns to worry.

"Are you alright?"

"Later. Let's focus on this first."

But, when he looks up, the drones—why is he calling the black robots drones?—are all gone or still on the ground.

"Later has come already. Sit down, let me see."

"Here?"

"And _now_." A push on the shoulder, and he kneels down obediently, tensing as he feels the winged robot crouch at this back. "Easy, I'm just going to take a look. May I touch?"

Creepy as such a thing sounds, the Ron from then just doubts an instant before nodding.

And when he feels metallic hands, it isn't on any part of his body Fowler is familiar with, but on what seem like short wings hanging almost lifelessly off his shoulder blades.

Regardless of them being real or not, they are incredibly sensitive, and he can hear himself hissing at the string of pain coursing through his back and shoulders as impossibly delicate fingers caress the leading and trailing edges.

But it is when one touches the joint between back and wing that he yelps and tries to jerk away, gasping at the pain the sharp gesture produces before strong hands on his shoulders keep him still.

"Dislocated. We better wait until—"

"No. Now. I can't-can't go back like… like _this_." He hisses, eyes closed and hands tightly clasped into fists on his thighs.

Instead of asking again or trying to convince him otherwise, the creature at his back moves a bit—

And before he can process the hands suddenly clasping both his wings, the appendages are pulled back with a sharp _snap_ that makes him howl in agony.

It takes him a bit to clear the pain, but he finally manages, only to find himself curled against a warm metallic chest with arms and long and wide wings enveloping him in a cocoon of safety.

"You better now, buddy?" A well-known voice asks, and Fowler slowly tilts his head up to meet a white face on a black head with a blue visor, a far more welcome relieved and worried smile on Jazz's lips than the previous sight of his robot self was.

"Yes." He whispers hoarsely, and the arms release their tight grip as the wings pull back. "Thanks." He adds, turning to the dark-faced metallic creature with the red eyes, who gives a half smirk in return.

"I'll find some way for you to pay back."

"I don't doubt it."

But they're both equally relieved, and despite their keeping count of who owns what to whom, they don't really care about it.

They're fighting a common enemy side by side, and that's all that matters.

Even if it's quite confusing for the Fowler of _now_, compared to the one from _then_.

… Why is he thinking of it like _memories_?!

Well… maybe because the next parts of his dream _were_ real memories. Of his childhood, his days as a rookie Enforcer, working with Jazz, joining Civilian Government…

It… is like watching his life… and the life _before_.

He snorts at that, but the humor he tried to put in it isn't there.

He didn't have a _previous_ life, before being born in the Protectodome, least of all being a flightless winged _robot_.

At least… he thinks he didn't.

_Alright, enough lazing around, Ron. Time to get up and be productive._

So he does just that.

And freezes as he pulls the covers off him and sits on the bed.

John Sanders is sitting against the wall in front of him, a knee pulled up, uncovered eyes closed and blond hair slightly tussled up, which, together with the plain white cotton clothes, make him look as if he's just woken up.

Is it another hallucination?

"Sanders?" He whispers, more a question to himself than to the apparition in front of him, but the other man stirs.

And, slowly, opens unfocused blue eyes that, with a couple of blinks, meet Ron's green ones and widen in surprise.

"Fowler?"

"Am I dreaming?"

"If you are, I think _I_ am dreaming too." The Military Third answers with a small, disbelieving smile, looking him up and down with growing surprise. "You are… Like me…"

"Alive? Or going crazy?" He can't help but ask, a gasp that should be a chuckle, or something of the like, escaping after those words, as he reaches to run a hand through his messed up auburn locks, a gesture the other man observes almost in awe.

"Both." Sanders finally answers, actually chuckling, and the Commander-in-Chief joins him after a moment. "I… I can't believe… Are you a hallucination?"

"Hell, no. Are you?"

"No way."

And, despite everything they want to ask, they fall silent.

Most likely, because neither of them believes this is real.

But Fowler blinks, and Sanders blinks, and the Civilian Second can still see the Military Communications Officer sitting against the wall, watching him like _he_ was the miracle.

"How did you get here?" Ron finally manages, and the blond's smile diminishes as he looks at his lap.

"I… The Protectodome fell and… They said I was the only survivor."

"They told me _I_ was the only survivor. That… Reeds had fallen defending us, and that Jazz was taken by the Black Plague, but that I… somehow, I survived it."

"Then, you know more than I." Sanders snorts humorlessly, almost darkly, and the Commander-in-Chief straightens in surprise. "They just said I was the only one left and… left me here. They didn't even explain _this_." He hisses poisonously, glaring at his outstretched hands.

Is there something on them? Something Fowler can't see, like a scar, or some other mark?

"They're hiding something. I _know_ it, don't ask me why, but they _are_. I've been looking for you for a while, I thought… I thought Reeds was still alive—"

_"Barrel-roll to the left! _Reeds_!"_

_::Close call, but the Runner is gone. Thanks for the heads up, Marauder. How did you know my name?::_

_"I didn't know, Death Cry. It's just… I had a friend that piloted a Tetrajet."_

_::I thought Civilian and Military didn't mix here?::_

_"You're not Iaconian."_

_::Too obvious, am I?::_

_"Steve Reeds, Military Second of _Ark_."_

_::How did you know?::_

_"It's not real… it's not real, it's another hallucination, it's not _real_…"_

_::Wait, wait! Hallucination? Are you… are you Arkian too? You had a friend in the Military, a Tetrajet pilot, and those _strategies_… Fowler?::_

_"Steve."_

_::Ron.::_

"You felt him too?" He cuts with a whisper, and Sanders' eyes widen in surprise and hope.

"You _did_? Is… Was it like this?"

"I-No, he… I thought he was one of the Tetrajet pilots I talked to, he… he recognized me, and we talked but… the connection closed and I thought he was…"

"If Reeds is still alive, Jazz may—" The Communications Officer makes to stand up, and his whole body flickers like a faulty hologram.

"_Sanders_!" Ron shouts, jumping for the other man as he falls to his knees, flickering even worse as he reaches for the Commander-in-Chief—

"_Fowler_!"

Their hands touch with a zap of electricity, and John Sanders is gone.

"No… No, no no _no_…" He whimpers, pulling his pained but numb limb to his chest, holding it tightly with his other hand as if that would make feeling return to it faster.

It… it…

When Ron Fowler looks down at his unresponsive arm, he see shiny white plating and metallic fingers uncurling as his own do.

* * *

"For once, Kup, your old processor actually turned up with a good idea."

"Nah, it's just that only now is _your_ processor mature enough to realize all my ideas are good." The old mech answers, and Jazz just smiles widely in response.

Half of Darkmount, or more, may say the black and white Cybertronian isn't ready for this, but what they don't know is that he _needs_ this run.

He's about ready to go all out psycho on them otherwise and _this_ may just be their salvation.

Sure, he's still relegated to the back lines, with orders to fall back if things get nasty, and with Kup assigned as his superior officer, aka caretaker, but, at long last, Jazz is out on the field.

His mission? Capture of any enemy craft that comes close enough, with as little damage as possible.

His whole being is about to burst at the seams from excitement.

A task with which to burn all his restlessness, with concrete enough parameters to ensure he doesn't just lash out.

Familiar enough for him to be _himself_ while not being completely so.

Jazz is not sure if that otherness about himself is the Cybertronian Jazz of the monster Optimus promised him he _wasn't_, but, right now, he doesn't care.

He's about to _finally_ do _something_.

The patrol they're trying to ambush is small and just far enough from the major mines to ensure capture of at least a dozen individuals, most likely drones, but a mech can hope, can't he?

So, silent and invisible as a shadow in the dark, the Head of Spec Ops kneels next to the veteran and the twins, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

Their mission? Bring down the Fliers.

Jazz just tagged along to provide cover fire this time, though, as soon as the twins are on with their Jet Judo—something he's quite eager to actually see, after being told much about it—he's supposed to rush down to ground level to deal with the Grounders.

And oh, does he have _ideas_ for that…

Including, but not limited to, the scrambler charges Shockwave gave him before leaving Darkmount, and his new gun.

He will need to get close to use the charges, patch-like circles of metal and wire that need to be directly applied to the armor to be effective, but that's just one thing he's more than willing to do.

He'll burn more energy that way.

"Alright, newsparks, here come the tin-foil turkeys."

Grimaces all around at the name, but, since the Aerial patrol is effectively coming closer, the three younger mechs just glare at Kup.

Sideswipe taps Jazz's shoulder plate and, when he has the former Civilian Third's attention, he smirks and points to his visor before signaling his own red chest plate with his thumb.

_Watch the experts._

The Head of Spec Ops answers with a smile, and they both turn to the approaching crafts.

There are some easily recognizable Tetrajets, though with simplified wings and flaps, forming half the bulk of the formation, with the other half being some larger and thicker crafts with their sides sharpened as if they were blades, and some short fins towards the end to act as… rudders?

A curious bulkier jet at the front and higher up, its own wings extending from further back than the normal crafts but pointing forward, seems to direct the group, and the black and white mech knows without need to be told that it is a real Cybertronian instead of a drone.

Such a characteristic and unique design can't be anything else, least of all if it's so obviously guiding the others.

There are a couple more Fliers behind it, one an almost carbon copy of the _Ark_'s Tetrajets, and the other like those flying oblong saucers mixed with the rest of drones.

Alright, main target: The only jet to truly stick out of the group.

The rest, for all they know, are drones, with the two after the leading mech being the ones designated to organize the rest, ergo, to pass the orders to their assigned 'comrades'.

However, the commanding trio are flying too high to be the twins' targets.

A couple of hand-signs from Kup, their comms tightly closed to avoid detection, and they all have their orders.

The twins' are to cause chaos among the drones, taking down as many as possible, while Jazz and Kup shoot at the command.

If they're busy enough avoiding their fire, they won't be able to send orders to their minions.

So, when they're close enough, the shooting begins, forcing the trio of commanders to scatter and thus giving the twins enough time to jump onto a drone, and, from there, to the rest, breaking wing joints and tails as they go so that the damaged crafts have no choice but to land, albeit a bit roughly.

The echoing sound of shooting from below tells them the rest of the group has engaged the ground patrol too, so the party is officially on.

And Jazz is having the time of his life.

Even if he can't manage to shoot that pesky Tetrajet down, damn it!

From the corner of his visor, however, the Head of Spec Ops spies a more juicier target, flying almost parallel to the ruined building they're in to go unseen by the two mechs still inside.

The outstanding Tetrajet.

The Cybertronian.

With barely enough time to click his gun back into the harness at his back, Jazz rushes away from Kup, because if he goes to _that_ room—

With a burst of speed, he jumps through the window—

And slams onto the passing Tetrajet.

He cackles loudly as he holds tightly onto sharp-angled plates, pedes digging into the back-positioned wings as he once did Starscream's hip-latches, and _tugs upright_.

Between the pressure on the wings and the mech straightening on its back and thus being buffeted by the wind, the craft goes into an involuntary U-turn, and properly falls into a spiral as it tries to regain control of its flight, but the Head of Spec Ops doesn't make it easy as he digs fingers into any crevice he can find in search for wiring, as well as pushing on ailerons with his pedes.

In the end, the black and white mech only stops tweaking when they're about to crash, jumping off the Tetrajet into a controlled roll while the Flier turns onto itself at the sudden loss of weight, stilling in midair to regain its bearings—

And Jazz pulls out his gun and _shoots_.

This close and with the jet immobile, there is absolutely no way he could miss.

But those statistics didn't consider the fact that the Tetrajet would pull a _barrel roll_ while stopped and almost touching the ground.

There's only one mech able to do that.

"Starscream?!" Jazz shouts, glee and bloodlust vanishing to give way to desperate hope.

The craft transforms—

And the mech standing in its place, wings folded onto themselves at his back, long and sharp horns sticking out of his forehelm and hollowed out cheeks, glaring at him with blazing red optics is _not_ the Seeker.

Not at first glance, at least, because after a second look there are far too many similarities for it not to have been the same model as Thundercracker and Skywarp before being turned into _that_.

"Cyclonus to you." The Flier growls, voice deep and menacing, and the Head of Spec Ops remembers all those meetings before the _Nemesis_' lockdown because of that virulent flu, and how the Military Second's voice had been a smooth rasp that could go down to being as deep as this mech's voice—

And there's shooting and he's evading instinctively, returning fire even as he scurries into another wrecked building, hiding into the tiniest hole he can find.

Sometime while he's trying to get his processor to stop spinning and his fans to work harder to dissipate the building heat in his chest, quiet be damned, the chaos outside goes silent.

His comm is crackling, voices calling for him, but Jazz lets his gun fall and curls into himself with a sob.

The hope was small, tiny enough to be almost non-existent, but now…

His friends, his brothers, are gone.

And the worse is that there are things left behind in their places.

Is that how the others felt, when they first woke up in the Resistance base thinking themselves human? Is that how they feel each and every day they ask Jazz about something his Cybertronian self should know, and get blank looks in answer?

"Come on, newspark! Get out of wherever you are!" Kup shouts, sounding closer.

"Jazz? Jazz! They're gone now, we won!"

"Jazz, this isn't funny! Come out here!"

No, it's not funny.

And no, they haven't won.

But yes, he has to get out.

So, slowly, completely silent, with his chest still blazing because his fans refuse to work at full capacity so as to not give his position out with the noise, the Head of Spec Ops slips out of his hidey hole and back into the street.

There are drones all over the ground, but no sign of the Cybertronian leading them.

Of course there isn't.

Starscream was always the best.

And the black and white mech, who is supposed to have some kind of bond, some connection to the Seeker, clung to his plating and tried to rip him apart and felt _nothing_.

Sideswipe turns around, servos around his mouth to keep calling for him, and instead jumps with a startled yelp and trips over his own pedes, falling to the ground in a pile of red and silver parts.

"Slag it all, Jazz, don't scare me like that!" The frontliner exclaims, though there's relief in his voice, as he gets back upright and approaches—

Kup extends a hand to hold both twins away, serious and wary and tense, as if readying for a new battle, as he observes the serious and motionless former Civilian Third.

"What happened, Jazz?"

Not newspark.

That's what clues the mechs around them that something _bad_ is going on, all of them stilling and turning to analyze the tiny black and white mech.

"I found Starscream." The Head of Spec Ops whispers, voice not emotionless, but devoid of absolutely everything.

Not even the usual 'coldness' of the lack of emotions.

Simply nothing left behind.

One of Kup's servos moves slowly to grip his gun, while those Cybertronian standing far enough try to move away carefully, as if they could go unseen.

They don't, but the object of their fear and cautiousness doesn't clue them in.

"And?"

Jazz smiles.

All mechs freeze, deers in the highlights, terrified but unable to even shiver.

Because Jazz may be smiling, but it is _not_ a sane smile, or even a deranged smile.

Is one that promises, cheerfully and with complete certainty, that there will be no survivors once he's done.

"He's dead."

Kup's optics pale, dactyls tightening around his gun—

_"No deactivating allies, Jazz."_

_"Define 'allies'."_

_"Synonym of tools. And remember, once you don't find any other use for them, I may still do, so no deactivating them even then."_

_"You're the tactician, Prowler."_

And Jazz lets despair wash over him, a pained grimace on his features as he turns his visor offline and covers his faceplate with a servo.

"Can I go back to base? Please?" He whimpers pitifully, uncaring about the tone or the visual arrays on him or the silence.

Pede-steps approach, and a warm and comforting servo lands on his shoulder plate with a reassuring squeeze.

"Of course you can. Come on, I'll go with you." Kup answers softly, and, with a nod and his sight on the ground under his pedes, the former Civilian Third starts to walk, the older mech guiding him with the servo still on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

He can hear the veteran say something in answer, most likely telling him there's no need to apologize, but the black and white Cybertronian doesn't listen.

The words are for those that can no longer hear them.

* * *

**AN:** _Now_ we're talking about the plot moving!

My apologies about Fowler's scene, that dream made of scenes was necessary, though. But I really like that part... and what is to come *insert evil grin*

About Jazz's... What? I always wanted to write Jazz Jet Judo-ing someone, okay? ... But, yeah, that... didn't turn out exactly as I wanted. Poor Cybertronian are going to get a mountain of slag thrown their way when Jazz reports... _But_ things will have to change in the Quintesson side too, so I guess that part isn't all that bad.

Oh, well. Enjoy!

**Anon:** Well, if it's worth something, it looks like I'll be able to update once a week from now on, so you won't have to wait as much...

Now _I_ am the one with butterflies in my stomach from all that praise. I'm so so happy you like this as much... And while I haven't seen _Inception_, I can say that thing about a dream inside the dream isn't that bad an idea, but I'm not that cruel to do something like that to you... or am I?

I hope this chapter answers some things, because I'm afraid if I say something I'll spoil everything :P

Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	49. Decisions

"Cyclonus, report!"

Not the nicest thing to hear as soon as he transforms, back in the safety of the _Quintessa_, with dented wings, but at least it was expected.

Having a crazy Cybertronian jump on him midflight? _That_ was a surprise, and a nasty and painful one at that.

If not for Starscream having taught him how to barrel roll while stopped, and close to the ground, he would've been…

Shaking the thought away, the Air Commander focuses back on Galvatron, a worried Scourge by his side and Reeds standing behind them, looking almost as angered as the Field Commander, though he keeps it under better control.

"Minor damage from the… unorthodox assault. Flier losses amount to a dozen, as of reported."

"You let them take a dozen of our own? What were you exactly doing?!"

"They surprised us during patrol, Sir. We did as much as we could to drive them back and get away, but the initial losses were high."

Galvatron seems ready to explode into a tirade about his uselessness, but he catches himself at the last moment.

Some of the things he's going to say are not for Tainted audials, and while most of them are going on their own business, Reeds is standing just there, looking over Cyclonus, focusing on his shoulder plates and the barely visible wings before meeting his optics and giving him a _look_.

Oh, no. He's _not_ going to try to talk the Field Commander into giving the other Seeker the independence he seeks while the Tread Roller is ready to snap some struts.

However, while his glare conveys that, the reaction is not what he expected.

Meaning, instead of standing down, Starscream straightens, complete with his wings snapping up and wide.

"Sir, I believe my probation time is over."

Slowly, _really_ slowly, Galvatron turns around, while Scourge carefully moves away from them, not wanting to get caught in the explosion.

"What did you just say?"

"I believe my probation time is over. Thus, I request being given a real position in Air Force. I have proven myself, both in and out of battle situation, and it is obvious that having to watch over me independently from the rest of the Tetrajets is only a distraction for the Air Commander. So, in regards of his safety, along that of the rest of the Military, I request you allow me to fully incorporate with the rest of the troops."

He didn't just say _that_.

… No, actually, he just did.

Cyclonus' jaw is hanging open in disbelief, but he can't bring himself to close it.

Reeds just _ordered_ Galvatron to get him out of probation while taking blame from the recent losses and the Air Commander's own damage—or while insulting the other Seeker's efficiency, because it could be taken like that, too.

Though, taking into account the Field Commander hates the Tainted in general, and Starscream in particular, Cyclonus knows just _how_ he's going to understand the smaller Flier's words.

As thus, he's ready to catch Galvatron's arm as the Tread Roller lifts the Tainted up from his neck, the other arm, the one the Seeker is holding, pulled back to punch the defiant mech.

"No, Sir, wait!"

"Let me go this instant, Cyclonus, or you will be punished with this disrespecting _fool_!"

"Yes, of course, because _that_ is the way to do things."

"Reeds, _mute it_!" The Air Commander growls, straining to keep his superior from bashing the sneering faceplate in, Scourge quickly joining his fellow Flier.

"So what? So that this _idiot_ can send you all to your deaths _again_?" With a sharp movement of his wrist, Starscream breaks free of Galvatron's hold, taking a step back to avoid being caught once more as the Field Commander reaches for him. "No! I refuse to sit tight and watch everyone die again! This is the second time my city, my _people_, have been obliterated while I miraculously survived, and I refuse to let it happen a third!"

The three officers freeze, not as much because of the spark-extinguishing glare of almost white optics as because of the words.

_Second_ time? But it has only happened once, with the Protectodome, so what is he _talking_ about?

"_Forget_ it. It's obvious if I want in, I'll have to do it myself." Reeds snarls, turning around and striding out of the docks before the others manage to make sense of what he's just… said.

_I'll have to do it myself._

"Slag!"

They receive startled and worried looks as the three Commanders rush into the corridor, but, as soon as they see the doors of one of the conference rooms close, they forget all about their audience.

However, in the klik it takes them to follow him inside—and how has he managed to lock the door to the point an override is needed?—he has already managed to hack into the computer and is patiently waiting for the holographic projection to show something other than static, arms crossed against his chest with a bored expression on his faceplate.

Galvatron doesn't wait an instant before ramming him into the wall, loud shrieking of metal against metal filling the room.

A large fist is pulled up, ready to slam into Reeds' pained grimace—

"What is going on here?"

—And they all turn to the holographic projection of the most important being in their functions.

Quintesson Judge Deliberata.

Or, to the Tainted, Supreme Commander Sebastien Prime.

"Nice to see you again, Sir." Reeds calls calmly from where he's still immobilized by Galvatron, and the Master swirling his Death face as the primary one immediately makes the Tread Roller release him. "I'm sorry for your loss." He adds, more solemn and almost sad, and the laughing face is moved at the forefront, to symbolize a smile.

"Thank you, Reeds. Now, why was I contacted?"

"I'd like to have my probation time over so that I may formally join Air Force. It's starting to become a distraction and a nuisance, and not only to myself." The Tainted explains, not even tensing at Galvatron's glare.

"Is that so? Who is your supervisor?" He asks with his doubt face, bright yellow optics roaming over the officers standing at attention.

"Air Commander Shiloh Grant, Sir." And Cyclonus tenses as his Master's attention falls on him.

"Air Commander, do you believe him ready?"

"Yes, Sir." He answers easily, having to catch himself before addressing the Quintesson as 'Master'.

"Then, your probation time is over, Steve Reeds. Field Commander Storm, add him to the roster."

"Yes, Sir." Galvatron responds dutifully, though there's a small grumble of displeasure in his words.

"If that will be all—"

"Actually, Sir, I have one more request." Reeds cuts, still calm under the attention of their Master, and the larger Seeker stiffens.

_No, don't, don't, don't—_

"Clear me for Project Soldier."

_And… he did. Slag._

"Project Soldier?" The doubt face stays in place as Judge Deliberata tilts his body, thinking… before the laughter face turns up. "Very well. All forms and necessary information will be delivered within the hour. Do not fail me, Reeds."

"Won't do, Sir." The Tainted answers, and the connection is cut.

"You _know_ the Supreme Commander?" Scourge asks after a moment, while Galvatron tries to stifle his anger and Cyclonus reboots his processor.

"Of course I do. He was _Ark_'s Civilian Government Commander before going to _Iacon_." The smaller Flier answers with a shrug, calmly walking past them with a smug smile on his faceplate. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have some forms to fill and information to read on, so I'll see you later." And, without another word, he steps out of the room.

Galvatron's enraged bellow practically sends the other two running after him, not willing to be the Field Commander's punching bags when he has a whole room to destroy.

Er, that is, Reeds may have questions about the new data, and, as his superior officers, both Fliers will be _delighted_ to help.

* * *

Optimus has to force his fans to work again, unable to stop himself from looking away from the tiny hunched up form on the berth in front of him.

Megatron, by his side, takes a couple of steps back until he can sit down on a berth of his own, optics pale with dawning horror before he covers his faceplate with his servos.

"I'm sorry." The voice is small, weak and so broken that Optimus can feel his field shrivel with something resembling agony, but nowhere close to the one belonging to the curled up Cybertronian before him.

The only thing he can think about is how, if they were human, they would be crying.

"I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_…"

"Don't." Megatron cuts, though his voice is a crackly and low as the smaller mech's, and he doesn't look up from his hunched position, servos on the sides of his helm instead of covering his faceplate. "It wasn't your fault."

"I should've been stronger, I should've pushed the debris away so they could get out, they—"

"It wasn't—"

"They're _dead_!" Jazz shouts, finally looking up with a snarl and deep blue visor.

But it isn't anger on his faceplate.

It's grief.

"I couldn't get them out, and the Quintessons have _twisted_ them, turned them into those—that _Cyclonus_ and who knows what else! They're _dead_." His voice breaks with a static chirp of his voice box going offline, and he curls back into himself, faceplate hidden behind his knees and arms embracing his legs tightly.

That doesn't stop his shudders and trembles as he sobs from being noticeable.

Megatron doesn't move from his hunched position, and Optimus, standing between them, can't find it in himself to move.

He just… can't.

The Quintessons deluded them before, installed fake memories, sensor-modifying programs, but…

They didn't outright reprogram them.

They've discussed it before, that all that was done to preserve their experience and tricks and abilities, and even some knowledge. Erasing their processors to have them develop from blank slates would have been easier and more secure, but, against those that hadn't been captured, the controlled mechs wouldn't have had a chance.

Thus, the Quintessons tricked them into serving.

But this time…

This time, it seems they have decided to bet on security instead of knowledge.

Yet…

"It makes no sense." He whispers, and while Jazz stays curled into a metallic ball of misery and grief and pain, Megatron looks up, a glint of hope amidst the sorrow in his optics and field. "If they had erased Starscream to create Cyclonus, how could he remember the maneuvers? How could he twist like the Starscream we know?"

_Knew_, some part of his processor reminds, but he quickly deletes that line.

Because there's a chance the present is still usable.

And if those brightening red optics and the look of realization are anything to go by, he's not the only one thinking that.

"He couldn't." The Decepticon answers, unable to believe his own words. "He couldn't have remembered unless they hadn't erased his processor. He _couldn't_."

"That means—"

"—They _didn't_."

Both leaders smile in growing hope, but a whimper makes them turn to where Jazz is slowly uncurling, visor darkened but online, though not looking at them.

"What if they didn't erase him _fully_?" The saboteur asks, and Optimus feels as if the ground has vanished from under his pedes. "What if they got rid of the personality but kept the rest?"

"There's no erasing the base personality, it comes from—" But Megatron cuts himself, frame stiffening and optics paling in horror.

The personality is influenced by the experiences, by the _life_ of a mech. But the very basics of it, the core of any Cybertonian, is the spark.

And no one can—

_"Not even creation would leave a mech with no copies of the energy regulation code. If what I fear is true… it may very well mean that someone _took them_."_

Repair Bay, after a party to celebrate Soundwave's recovery of his memories, a monitor with lines that spiked for just an instant before showing everything alright again, a matte black Seeker resting in stasis…

The Quintessons can mess with sparks. They have done it before.

So, if they really sifted through a mech's database, erased anything that is not combat-related, _and_ modified the base personality _of the spark_…

"Primus…"

He's not sure if it has been him or Megatron the one to speak, but they both shiver in unison as the realization dawns.

It _is_ possible.

Jazz whimpers and curls into himself once more, and Optimus can only rest a servo on a trembling shoulder plate.

It does nothing to reassure any of them.

* * *

No one notices.

How can no one _notice_?

But no, neither the triplets at breakfast, nor the operators around him during the shift, neither the Spektor brothers once more at lunch…

No one notices his robotic arm.

He thought it a dream, some kind of hallucination—he's suffered enough of those—but, after half the day of it _staying there_, plus the soft whirring coming from whatever's under the silvery white metal and the clanging as he rests it on a table or hits something with it, he's sure it's real.

One of Ron Fowler's forearms and the attached hand are robotic, and _not a single person notices_.

Oh, it's the same tone as his uniform, yes, but he couldn't manage to get the sleeve over it, so he had to cut it at the elbow, and operators don't wear gloves.

Plus, the metal is _shiny_.

And still, no one even looks at it twice.

It's as if they didn't realize anything was wrong with him.

_"They're hiding something. I _know_ it, don't ask me why, but they _are_."_

Sanders' words, in the hallucination he's not sure is a hallucination anymore.

And…

_"They just said I was the only one left and… left me here. They didn't even explain _this_."_

He had looked down at his own hands then, but they had looked normal.

_And so had my arm, just a moment before._

It had been a zap, nothing more than some pins and needles, like a hit to the elbow, when his hand had touched Sanders', but, suddenly, his arm was no longer human.

It couldn't have just changed, in such a short instant.

In fact, it was almost as if it had been… _revealed_.

Like a band aid being pulled off, a tiny sting before a wound is shown as healed skin.

Only, this metaphorical 'band aid' hadn't revealed the pale skin of a healed wound, but a whole new structure underneath.

And, like with the new skin under the bandage, it doesn't feel wrong.

That is what scares Ron the most.

That, and the fact no one else seems to notice.

Because that means he's either finally going over the deep end, or—

_"Remember what I told you I found? I fear there may be more to it than just a prankster. Think, sir. Papers can be lost and data deleted, but how do you erase the minds of a whole Protectodome?"_

_"Thinking about the lack of officers before us? Because believe me, the joke that runs around about me having held my position for so long that no one remembers the previous Air Commander is no joke."_

_"We checked."_

The Military Base, after a run that almost ended in a tragedy, a melody that had suddenly recovered its alien lyrics, a previous conversation about _memories_ missing, of all things—

_"Any other discrepancies? This… possibility you're suggesting is…"_

_"Too big?"_

_"Names and memories."_

_"Names? As in… as in someone calling you something that isn't your name but feels…"_

_"Right."_

_"What?"_

_"When you got out of the Cybertronian… I thought it was you being adrenaline high, so I paid it no mind, but… you called me—"_

"Prowler."

It feels wrong on his tongue, even as he whispers it, but, at the same time, it sounds right too, even if…

Even if it was another voice that should be saying it.

"Jazz."

"Fowler? Are you alright?"

He startles at the voice, head jerking up to see he's stopped in the middle of the corridor, the Spektor triplets surrounding him with looks of worry.

The hand that had been unknowingly caressing his robotic arm tightens its grip on it.

Despite the metal, it feels warm. Pulsing.

Alive.

_It's real. Sanders was real, the missing officers—well, the _situation_ with the missing officers was real too._

_There's something wrong with the world._

_Starting with…_

"Prowler."

"Huh?" The triplets let out in unison, tilting their heads at the same time, as he finally focuses on them, crossing his arms at his back and no longer hesitating or flinching at touching living metal.

_Living metal. Yes, that's exactly what this is._

"I'd prefer if you called me Prowler. It is… a nickname my friends use—used." But, even as he corrects himself, he doubts whether he should've done so.

Sanders is alive, somewhere, and he's almost sure Reeds is too.

Which means Jazz is still around too, he just hasn't found him yet.

The Spektor brothers nod in agreement and start talking about the topics of gossip of the day as they make their way back to their posts.

No one notices the Arkian's robotic arm.

Prowler makes a note to check the rest of himself once he's back in his quarters for the night, but this time with his metallic hand.

Maybe this time, when he touches flesh, he'll hear the clanging of metal.

He finds himself eagerly hoping that is so.

* * *

Sound's gaze is on the ceiling, but he's not seeing it.

He has slept the whole day away, exhausted after the meeting with Fowler.

And it _was_ a meeting, not a hallucination.

Because the man he saw wasn't human.

And yet, he easily recognized the short-winged silvery white robot with glowing blue lenses for eyes as the Civilian Second of _Ark_.

_Because he _was_ Fowler._

He'd woken after a forgotten dream about his life before this mess, and, after eating breakfast and sitting against the wall, he'd been thinking of how much he would like to go back there, to see and talk with those he once knew, using memories of them as anchors.

He was deep in reminiscing about the Commander-in-Chief when he heard his voice.

And, lo and behold, when he opened his eyes, there he was, sitting on his bed and looking confused.

It had taken him some seconds to notice that the man wasn't human anymore.

That had been when he realized the whole experience was real.

However, the instant he'd tried to move, his whole world had gone black, and he barely managed to get back in time to stop himself from face-planting to the floor.

And Fowler was gone.

So, now that he knows what he's capable of and what are his limits, Sound is pondering his next move.

… And yes, it was _him_ who contacted Fowler, not the other way around, even if he can't explain _why_ or _how_.

The Commander-in-Chief believes Reeds is still alive, and that he managed to contact him, so he should be the next he tries to talk to.

But, Fowler already did, and none of them knows about Jazz.

Or anyone else, for that matter, but, despite all his instincts, he has the feeling his children and younger brother are alright, even if their absence is an almost physical ache in his heart.

He would give _anything_ to see them again, to talk to them and make sure they are alright, but…

He _knows_ they are.

And Jazz is still the biggest unknown.

So, Sound nods minutely as he makes his decision.

He will try to contact the Civilian Third next morning, once he's fully recovered from the tiring experience of talking to Fowler. And, the day after that, he'll try to get through to Dexter, if he hasn't managed to get to Jazz. If he can establish contact with the Head of Special Operations, he'll talk to Fowler, and, depending on whether or not there are news of Reeds, he'll try him next.

And, who knows, maybe with all that practice, he'll manage to grow strong enough to talk to two people in the same day.

Yes, it's decided.

He'll talk to Jazz, or try until he can't anymore.

Tomorrow.

* * *

**AN:** My apologies for the delay... and for the chapter. I have the feeling that it's somewhat of a filler, regardless of the happenings in it, but I can't see any way of modifying it so... That's how it stays.

Let's see if I can get the next ready for the weekend, shall we?

**Angel Heart:** Better late than never XD Plus, the story isn't going anywhere, so take all the time you want/need to check it out. And reviews, while appreciated, aren't mandatory, so no worries if you don't review a chapter :)

I hope this chapter answers your questions (it was good for something, at least...), because I'm afraid anything I say will be a spoiler XP

Nice reading from you again!


	50. Tomorrow is Yesterday

Jazz may have been the one to find out about Starscream, but the ones who take it worse are Thundercracker and Skywarp.

Their shouts can be heard halfway across Darkmount, despite the room they're supposed to be in is soundproof.

But, well… Thundercracker _does_ have his sonic capabilities.

They go out for a long flight after that, comms offline, though they have enough sense to go to Earth to do it.

And thus, they get a call from an almost desperate Skyfire barely ten minutes after the Space Bridge cools off, asking if what he's been told about the captured mechs having been reprogrammed is right.

Blaster tells the Head of Spec Ops afterward that he couldn't bring himself to look at the screen when Optimus answered, but that the pained keen that came from the Shuttle will haunt him for a really long time.

All of Darkmount is still, darkened—no pun intended—after the news spread.

Because they may have only confirmed Starscream's… _demise_, but if it has happened once, it's to be expected it has been the same for all the other captives.

Which means Prowl is gone too.

Against what he thought he'd do, Jazz doesn't close himself in his room, away from all other Cybertronian.

Oh, he still fears losing control and killing them all in a murderous—and terrifyingly exciting—spree, but that's the very same reason he can't hide away.

Prowl isn't here to keep him in check, and he won't be back to help him change like he did the first time around.

Which means Jazz has to find a way to do it himself.

Because he's needed, and he won't let them down.

Plus, he owes it to his friends to get rid of the _tools_ the Quintessons have turned them in.

He still has work to do.

And he will do it.

Whatever happens afterward… Well, he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

Or jump into the river to never surface again, most likely.

Yet, it is nothing he should be worrying about now.

Kup at one side, Ironhide at the other, and Optimus, Megatron, Shockwave, Ultra Magnus and Acid Storm all around the table, he looks at the projection in front of them, showing the last battle.

It's… getting increasingly hard to walk out of those.

Not only has the number of transforming humanoid drones increased, but they're getting _better_.

And more vicious.

He doesn't bother keeping an appreciative hum silent as one of the Quintesson controlled completely matte black Tetrajet drones drops out of the sky, transforming as it goes, to crush, and thus effectively disable, one of their purple and red marked extra armored ground drones—Point Heavy, as they called them back in the Protectodome—while shooting down two of their Runners with its arm cannons.

He may want to rip them all apart, but that doesn't mean he can't learn some lessons from the enemy.

Eerie blank slab for faceplate or not, with only two slits of blazing red where the optics should have been.

Creepy. Impersonal.

But, hey, they're drones. Not everyone can go around deactivating mechs with a smile on their faceplate as he does.

It takes a spark, first and foremost, and a really messed up one, to be as twisted as he is.

None of the Cybertronian around the table react to his tiny but menacing smirk, knowing well enough that it is better to let him be, in case they managed to attract the wrong kind of attention.

He's working on controlling himself, on being like the Jazz they knew, back in the Protectodome, but he appreciates the effort of turning a blind eye—or would it be a blind optic?—nevertheless.

"We really need to find a way to neutralize those things." Ironhide grumbles as they watch a small ground-based drone disable two more of their own robots while easily evading their shots.

"We need to identify the leaders and bring them down." Shockwave agrees with a tiny nod, fiddling with the controls to pull the recording away. "These are the ones identified so far."

Starscream. No, _Cyclonus_.

Along one of those flying saucers and a large and heavily armored tank, both their root and alt modes.

"Their reinforced armor makes it hard to identify more mechs amidst the drones, but we know there are some more among them. So far, however, only these three have identified themselves as independent and conscious mech, and are following the Quintessons of their own free will." The scientist adds, bringing up more images of both modes of a common Tetrajet, the tiny grounder, a slightly larger but still sleek-looking version, and the three modes of a helicopter-armored vehicle Triple Changer. "In lieu of the new findings, however, perhaps we should revise the order to refrain from using highly damaging force."

"No." Optimus answers immediately, firm and obviously unwilling to even contemplate anything else. "If there is even the smallest chance we can get back those that were captured, we won't—"

"We should shoot to deactivate." Megatron cuts, attracting all gazes, some clearly surprised while others are curious. "If it means the safety of those remaining, any remnants of the lost mechs would agree their sacrifices were worth it."

"But—"

"Optimus. If I were to be captured and turned into… _that_, would you allow me to take your mechs to reprogram them in the off chance _my_ changes were reversible, or would you deactivate me to save the rest?" The Military Supreme Commander asks, voice softer but still strong, as he gestures to the image of the self-designated 'Galvatron'.

And, looking as if the weight of Earth _and_ Cybertron were on his shoulder plates, the blue and red mech turns to stare at the table under his tightly clenched fists.

His answer is clear when he slumps down in defeat, optics going black.

No one can berate him for his uneasiness, but hope is something they can't afford to hold on to in these times.

It's useless now.

"We should refrain from using extreme force, nevertheless, though perhaps a team of specialized mechs should focus on disabling the known leaders." Ultra Magnus adds after a moment, when his superior has managed to pull himself together.

And all gazes turn to Kup and Jazz.

Because the older Cybertronian leads a team of highly trained heavy hitters known as The Wreckers, but smaller mech is the unofficial Head of Special Operations.

Unofficial, because, with The Wreckers, they already have a Special Operations team, and because they don't really have any more of the black and white's kind.

So, perhaps it would be better to say Jazz is their Black Ops Agent.

Or mercenary slash assassin slash crazy psycho murderer, because Primus knows he's all of those and some more.

No matter what Prowl said, a long time ago.

_Prowl's not here now. And he won't be coming back._

He just nods alongside Kup when their leaders give them questioning looks.

He will refrain from outright killing, and from making it messy when he does, and capture of the targets operative will be far more useful for Shockwave than bringing them in pieces, but that doesn't mean he'll hesitate about ripping their power sources out of their chests if the need arises.

"Just… Keep safe." Optimus whispers, and they both straighten to reassure him instead of speaking out loud.

They will try, and that's all they can promise him.

But nevertheless, some things are better left unsaid.

And thus, they go back to discussing the specifics and what little they have about the schematics of their targets—which is admittedly quite a lot when it comes to the generic Tetrajet and the middle-sized Grounder—as well as their tactics—simple in some, so complex that they seem to be improvised in others—so that they can plan their next move accurately.

When they finally leave, Kup quickly pulls him aside.

Not that he wasn't expecting it.

For a long time, they just stare at each other, serious, without exchanging a word.

And then, the green mech offlines his optics with a hydraulic hiss that can only be called a sigh.

"Remember there's a time to act, and another to think. Hesitation is not always wrong, newspark."

Jazz doesn't say anything back, and the older Cybertronian just sighs again before turning around, though he doesn't leave.

Apparently, his silence was the wrong answer.

But what can he say? That he won't kill every drone he crosses?

He may be a lot of things, but he's not a liar.

Or, at least, he's trying not to be.

He won't promise something he won't follow through.

"Just… keep that in your processor."

And Kup goes away without an answer, though this time, apparently, he wasn't expecting one.

So, Jazz makes his way through the corridors too, up and up and up, until one of the large balconies—landing pads, actually.

Cybertron is bathed in starlight, but it's as easy to see as if it was bright daylight.

The ruins of once magnificent cities make his chest constrict, something like a memory prickling at the back of his mind, but he can't actually remember how things once were.

Perhaps it is better this way.

Perhaps this is what was meant to be all along.

After all—

_"Remember, that we are servants of Cybertron, loyal to the Senate, who watches over each and every mech. Remember also that we are but Cybertanium-laced slates and must continuously work to care for Cybertron with the purified metal within us."_

"We remember."

_"Recognize with gladness that we are neither lost, nor strangers to Primus, but one of His good creations, and in Cybertron we shall care for mechs from many frame types and city states. There is no shame in guiding sparks to Primus; forget not that our own being is Primus' work. Primus will care for the spark as the Senate cares for the frame."_

"We recognize."

_"The Senate cares for spark and frame, and so must we. Work happily, with unbending loyalty, for this is the way to at all times honor your fellow mech."_

"We honor."

_"Each of us must be capable of making sacrifices. Do not strive for worldly wealth and tricks of freedom—perhaps next orn we might have to give account of ourselves. We shall not deviate, for excuses are not acceptable to the Senate and the Almighty Primus."_

"We sacrifice."

_"Each orn we must help our Cybertronian kin for whom we are responsible, by following the Senate's wise commands. Accept no reward, always be a silent shadow for Cybertron, for all the Senate holds for us is the opportunity to flee the sins of the frame, to teach our Cybertronian kin to live charitably, to be their penitence, and above all, to be the servants of Cybertron by serving the Senate."_

"We help."

_"As Guardians of Cybertron, we must always be prepared for action, be it either recovery or extinction. Our oaths require disregarding the common morals for them to be uphold, and to allow the way of life of Cybertron demands unquestioning loyalty to the Senate and their ideals. The true Guardian is, of course, humble before the Senate and unknown to our fellow Cybertronian. If a true Guardian of Cybertron would serve anyone, he serves the Senate!"_

"We serve!"

_"Come now. Let us hear your vows._ Jazz."

There's only a large darkened room, optics on him, and sensors tailing him with barely a hint of a caress, as he lowers himself to his knees.

"I pledge myself, from my creation to my deactivation, to the ranks of the Guardians of Cybertron, servant of the Senate. I declare to take freely and solemnly oath of obedience, isolation and servitude, as well as to protect and care for my fellow Cybertron at any necessary price."

His visor is offline, but he can see the hunched forms of his fellow Guardians at his back, awaiting their turn to step on the dais and bow to the Grand Master.

"With this oath I state my strong and irrevocable intent, to pledge my abilities, my training, my frame and my spark to the defense, honor and intent of the Senate of Cybertron, to the protection of Cybertron, her colonies and all those that inhabit them."

The Grand Master's piercing amber optics are on the back of his helm, as if he could see through metal and down to the very code in his processor, as if he could judge him worthy and true with his gaze alone.

"To submit to the rule of the Senate, to guard the Pax Cybertronia, the Laws and Decrees and all other statements issued by the Senate; not to show myself or allow my very existence to be revealed unless authorized by the Senate; to obey unconditionally and always, within specified parameters and without, and in all of my function, the Senate and those delegated by them, collectively and singularly."

His voice is soft, though it carries easily in the dark room, and is even more simply understood by the mechs there, their primed sensors tuned to even the smallest noise, but there's nothing more than his words coming from his frame.

"To help my fellow Guardians with my frame, my advice, means and wealth, my word and everything in my power, and will favor them, with no exception, over those who are not Guardians, unless otherwise stated by the Senate."

His systems run silent, as do all the others' present, for secrecy is the very being of those who are not meant to exist outside of this hidden room in a secret complex, unless ordered by their leaders.

"To defend the loyal followers, to aid and comfort those who are worthy by their beliefs, be they the humblest of serfs or the most magnanimous of Nobles. To fight the lost and misinformed with my words and subtle convincement; and to fight with deactivating damage those who rebel and defy the Senate with their own weapons. To abhor all fear and queasiness, and not to mingle and involve myself with the common Cybertronian and their vulgar pleasures, only when legitimately allowed by the Senate."

There's no approval from the Grand Master, nor awe from the other Guardians, because there should be none.

"Finally, barring rules dictated by the Senate, to conform to the Pax Cybertronia and the Laws and Customs of the city states in which I may infiltrate, to fulfill my duties of citizen, and to be loyal servant in those city states which entertain relations with the Senate."

And he stands, his red visor finally coming online to meet the amber optics of the Grand Master, and straightening as the visual arrays of the mechs at his back openly turn to him.

"This oath I pronounce loudly before the Guardians present at this room. I swear it and confirm it by my Energon and spark, for it to be registered in the archives relating to the Guardians of Cybertron and my own file."

An arm is lifted, wrist joint bared, and he doesn't even think of flinching when the Grand Master pierces one of the Energon lines in there to take a sample of the charged liquefied energy coursing through his frame and carrying the tiniest part of his spark.

"And so it shall."

The vial joins a rack, the last in a long line, and Jazz moves back to his position among the observing mechs as the Grand Master steps forward, tall and strong and firm despite being short and lean and flexible.

"Where other mechs blindly follow what they believe the truth, remember."

"Nothing is true." They chant in unison, voices barely louder than silence but strong in the dark.

"Where other mechs are limited by morality or law, remember."

"Everything is permitted."

"We work in the dark, to serve the light."

"We are Guardians of Cybertron. Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

And amber optics dim and dip in a nod, chaining them to their oaths and dismissing them at once and—

As soon as he finishes rebooting his visor, he finds himself under the starry canvas of nameless galaxies and constellations, standing over a desolated and ravaged city.

And he tastes failure, stark and almost overwhelming, because after everything he had done, all the Energon staining him, he still wasn't able to stop the war and the destruction of the Senate at the very beginning of it, and he had vowed, he had given his _spark_—

_"To say that nothing is true, is to realize that the foundations of society are fragile, and that we must be the shepherds of our own civilization. To say that everything is permitted, is to understand that we are the architects of our own actions, and that we must live with our actions, whether glorious or tragic."_

_"Then why does doing the right thing feel wrong?"_

_"Because that isn't what you are doing."_

_"What?"_

_"The Senate isn't upholding civilization, it is twisting it to its own benefit, to allow the few mechs conforming it and the Nobility to live at the cost of the rest of Cybertronian. Including yourselves."_

_"Meister means 'master', someone with the ability, power or control over something. But, according to what you just said, I've been a servant, a slave, all along."_

_"You misunderstand. A master may be that, but they are also someone eminently skilled in something. You are not only a protector of the people, misguided as you have been, but the moment you realized you were chained and started to cut the restraints off, you also became the master of your own fate."_

_"You were the one that made me realize it, that showed me what things were like and how they _should_ be."_

_"But you were the one to _accept_ them, to take them as the truth when all your function you've been taught the only truth is that spoken by the Senate. Besides, you _are_ a master of many trades."_

_"Kidnapping, spark extinction, torture—"_

_"Snark, humor, disguise, improvisation…"_

_"You really think so?"_

_"I _know_ so."_

_"So… what does that make me? 'Meister' sounds… kind of lacking now."_

_"On the contrary. Meister is appropriate. You just need to specify."_

_"Specify _what_?"_

_"That you are _the Jazzmeister_."_

_"_The_ Jazzmeister?"_

_"Is there any other Jazzmeister?"_

_"Heh. Nah, there isn't. Hey, Prowl?"_

_"Yes, Jazz?"_

_"… Thanks. For steering me along. And… for being there."_

_"You didn't need me there."_

_"Yeah, I did. I was so deep in the shadows, I didn't even _know_ there was a light."_

_"You weren't the only one lost, Jazz. I was so blinded by light, that I had forgotten shadows could grant such a respite. Thank you."_

_"Anytime, buddy. Huh… does that mean we…"_

_"Don't need each other? … I believe so."_

_"Oh. Well, I'll just—"_

_"However, that doesn't mean I don't want you around, annoying nicknames and touch-starvation included."_

_"Hey, I'm not touch-starved, Prowler!"_

_"Then you are plain 'touchy-feely'."_

_"And you love it."_

_"Do not."_

_"No use denying it."_

_"Stop."_

_"Hug?"_

_"Jazz, no—No, off with you! Let me go!"_

_"Not until you hug me back!"_

_"You are insufferable."_

_"I love you too, Prowler, I love you too."_

"You're not going to jump, are you?"

Small smile on his faceplate, visor half dim, frame shivering minutely, gaze on the destroyed city below, and knowing the energy field common to all Cybertronian is full of grief and happiness and relief, Jazz just shakes his helm.

And hears careful steps come closer, until Skywarp is standing at his side almost at the edge of the landing platform.

"Then, what are you smiling for?"

"I don't really remember the Jazz you guys knew, but I finally know who he was."

"And?"

"I had been wrong all along." He answers, letting out a chocked sound he's not sure if it's a sob or a laugh, his smile still soft but widening. "Prowl made me realize that."

The Seeker looks confused for an instant, as if ready to ask what he means, when his optics brighten in realization.

With a huff, the black and purple mech also turns to stare at the stars.

"You alright then?"

"Not really. But I will be."

"That's all anyone could ask for. That, and…"

"And?"

"You still have that recorder with all those freaky sound clips?" The Flier asks with a sharp smirk, tilting his helm to look down at the smaller mech.

And Jazz returns the mischievous grin without trouble, as sincere and real and innocent as he never thought he'd be able to feel again.

"Want to clue me in?"

"Want to _join_?"

"_Now_ you're talking."

* * *

**AN:** That... got out of hand. Again. It happens so often I'm not surprised anymore. Only, this time, I am. I got a happy ending. Huh. Wasn't expecting _that_.

Alright, the vows are modified from the Oath of the Templar Knights, with the last lines being from _Assassins Creed_.

And... that's all, for now.

Next chapter, we see how things are on the Quintesson side (and, if I get my way, we'll see some action).


	51. Racing in Time

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Prowler sighs at the answer, disappointed despite having forced himself not to hope these last days.

He's sitting on his bed once more, human and robotic arms resting on his thighs as he hunches forward, with Sound on the floor, leaning against the wall, and looking quite tired.

Almost a week has passed since their first interaction, but they have been unable to find anything about other possible survivors.

And neither have any of the men and women he works with noticed the redhead's metallic arm, despite have touched it in exchanges of pads, or an unfortunate crash in the corridor with a messenger.

Which means there's something far bigger than anything they could have imagined at work here, as it was back in _Ark_.

The first time he arrived to that conclusion, the wave of realization that swept through him would have thrown him to his knees hadn't he been already sitting down.

The non-existent officers had been the latest—and the biggest—project he'd been involved in before the fall of the Protectodome, the one that not only almost cost him his life—he remembers the Civilian Communications Center and flashes of smoke and fire against a starry sky—but all the others'—Jazz lying on a bed, unaware of anything around him, Reeds but a blink in a large screen, growing dimmer every hour, and blue eyes framed by the dark bags from lack of sleep on Sanders' face—and he _forgot_.

Or was made to forget.

When he mentioned it to Sound, the blond almost flickered out of existence before he put himself together.

He hadn't really forgotten, he told him, but he hadn't really remembered either.

And that was when Prowler realized he hadn't either.

It's just... he hadn't connected the dots between those last five days and the events of the year prior, because he hadn't noticed there were any dots to connect.

As Sound said, they hadn't actually remembered.

Like a dream, half forgotten, that pops up unexpectedly in a completely unrelated situation.

Or _seemingly_ unrelated situation.

The weight of his metallic arm is the same as the normal—and that is enough to make him question which is the normal one—but it feels suddenly heavier.

This is not a dream.

"There's nothing from my side either."

Though, actually, they _do_ have something.

Sound has some of his name back, as does Prowler.

It may be little, but it's _something_.

Plus, the former Second has been getting, as Jazz would say, _weird vibes_ from some people.

The Spektor triplets feel kind of nice, which is one of the reasons he started associating with them in the first place, but now others feel _wrong_.

Other operators, people he walks by in the corridors, even some of his former work-mates in accountancy.

They feel… hollow.

But there are more that don't.

Like the guy in the labs. He had just crossed him once, and some research turned up the name Cole Hunter, _Iacon_ Protectodome, one among a lot more of scientists working on Cybertronian sensors.

Nothing special.

Only, he _knows_ he is more than—

_"—meets the eye."_

Wait, what?

"Prowler?"

He blinks again, this time focusing on the man sitting against the wall rather than his own thoughts.

"Just… thinking. Have you ever heard of 'more than meets the eye'?"

Sound opens his mouth… and closes it with a frown.

"I… am not sure. It sounds strangely familiar. Reminds me of… blue and red?"

"Same with me."

"Do you think it may be important to all this?"

"I… not really. At least, not directly related. I mean, it sounds like something Command—" His voice cuts, eyes wide as he remembers a blond man, younger yet at times older, smiling calmly at him from behind a desk.

_"You should give them a chance. There's more than meets the eye when it comes to—"_

His head fills with static, and, with a hiss, he shakes it softly until the corrupted memory is pulled back, the self-repair queue updating to prioritize the recovery of all memories related to—

He whimpers loudly at that, both hands holding his head, as he tries to clear his thoughts of all that _nonsense_.

_Why the Pit am I thinking like a computer? And why hasn't my battle computer dealt with those things already?_

As in response, yet another queue comes up, pointing out to disconnected partitions and new restrictions and further advanced control coding and filters than—

_"—beta stage, Sir, we can't be really sure about—"_

_"That wasn't a suggestion, it was an _order_. You said it's safe enough and that my systems will integrate it and develop new control coding as they go, didn't you?"_

_"Yes, Sir, but—"_

_"Then _do it_."_

_"With all due respect, we don't really know what a battle computer like this one can do when fully linked to a mech. The tests we've done have always been through another computer, a _full synchronization_—"_

_"Is something we can't lose time testing when we have _a war_ waiting to happen. _Do it_."_

_"Yes, Commander Prowl—"_

"—o no no no _no_! Suspend synchronization, reset settings and _analyze_ that new coding!"

There's someone shouting, but he can only hear his whole processor come to a halt before it obeys and _finally_ runs through a set of scans that remind him of corridors out of the Civilian Government building mixed with the _Nemesis_', and desert sand and pure blue sky as far as the eye can see and—

_"Alright, let's take a break and—"_

_"And nothing. This is not working."_

_"Aw, come on, you need to give yourself some more time and a rest will surely—"_

_"I said enough. I never boarded a Cybertronian. Jazz and Reeds should be the ones out here, not _me_."_

—a headache, and datapads filled with history records he should remember but _can't_, and slowly drifting apart, and closing himself in his dark room, and—

_"Leave me—!"_

**_"Alone."_**

—his own voice…

_"Who are you?"_

**_"Just you…"_**

_"No… No, I'm not you I… I need…"_

**_"You're going to need me…"_**

_"Yes…"_

**_"But I'm losing myself…"_**

_"No! No, you're just coming back! Please don't go!"_

**_"You're going to lose me…"_**

_"_No_! I beg you, _don't_!"_

**_"I can't escape…"_**

_"I'm trapped… This isn't my body… This isn't my mind… I'm… I'm missing…"_

… but he's _not_. He's not missing, he's not broken, he's just _lost_…

_"Prowl?"_

_He reboots his optics as they threaten to fill with static again, but the worry in the pale red visor stays there._

"Soundwave."

There's a chocked static-like sound and, when he finally looks up from where his helm is resting on his servos, he sees a dark blue and white Cassette Carrier leaning against the wall of his room, his own helm buried in his black servos with his visual band offline, and his frame flickering as the bond and pseudo-comm line connection established thanks to the mech's Sigma Ability waver as he tries to clear his own processor.

Prowl feels his shaking doorwings slowly stop trembling as the Decepticon calms down and, using the time to analyze his own frame to make sure nothing is amiss, he allows a rueful smile to appear on his faceplate.

No wonder his 'robotic' arm had felt so right.

He keeps his field cloaked around himself, finally identifying it as what gives the 'illusion' of clothes, modifying it as he remembers pulling up his sleeves or straightening his shirt, and _feeling_ that happen.

They hadn't noticed back at the base, because such a thing hadn't been needed, and the stimuli they were receiving from the other Cybertronian, plus the lack of signals from the Quintessons, had nullified their automatic responses, but now, in their situation, he does.

The Quintessons certainly thought of everything.

_Time to see if they thought about a full on attack from the inside._

Back in the Protectodome, and due to them not fully knowing who they were, they had tried snooping around and being 'sneaky', before Jazz woke up from stasis lock and they stormed the secret basement, and their captors _hadn't_ been ready for that.

The first time.

Prowl winces out loud at remembering the second.

He can only hope Jazz managed to get out.

The saboteur had been having more than enough trouble putting himself together. If he was to be caught again…

"Prowl?" He looks up at the voice, finding a slightly confused yet hopeful Soundwave staring at him, seemingly finally having managed to sort his processor, and the Praxian nods. "Do you remember the Autobots?"

"As you the Decepticons." He answers, and they both relax with growing smiles on their faceplates. "I'm sure now that Starscream was captured with us, and most likely reprogrammed too. And I have an idea as to why you couldn't feel him or Jazz."

"Jazz wasn't caught, and Starscream is too far." He nods, and the Cassette Carrier looks away with a pensive expression. "I tried to contact Blaster too, but I got nothing either. I have the feeling none of the Resistance besides us three was captured."

"I think so too. I know there are some mechs here with me, and there must be more in the other motherships. If we could convince them…"

"We must be careful."

"I'm _done_ with careful." He growls, attracting a startled look. "Last time we were too overtly careful, and look what that did to us. I say we strike _once_, with enough strength that we need not do so again."

Soundwave looks away for a moment, as if pondering his plan, before tensing.

"We may actually be able to do such a thing. I believe the Dinobots and the Predacons are secluded in the same facilities as I." Prowl straightens, surprised, before a small smile starts to grow on his faceplate. "However, we will need more than that. Capturing one of these—what did you call them?"

"Motherships. There are actually three of them in orbit, ours included. Starscream is stationed in the _Quintessa_, we are in the _Deliberata_, and then there's the _Derodomontatus_. Should we 'wake up' Starscream, we could organize a coordinated coup in the two motherships, and if he was to contact others of the Military and get them back too—"

"We could deal with all three ships at once." Soundwave finishes, nodding, before frowning softly. "How do we know that's all there is? How can we be sure there aren't more, or that other Cybertronian weren't taken away?"

"Right now, we can't. We need Starscream first, see if he has information I haven't been able to get—and I need to revise everything I can, now that I know what I'm actually looking at. However…" His last word is a whisper as he remembers his first visit to the bridge, and he can feel the pulse of curiosity and expectation through the bond with the Decepticon that translates into a physical expression from the 'avatar' his processor has projected in his room. "I think there may be another way. I'm sure the Commander of this mothership is a Quintesson."

"Really?"

"He's Sebastien Prime."

And Soundwave grimaces, but nods with a humorless smile after a nanoklik.

Yes, he remembers just _what_ the last 'Sebastien Prime' turned out to be.

"I may be able to access his brain and get the data we need. Organic or not, the Quintessons created our race. They must have based us of something. Besides, unless they are more primitive than humans, I will be able to deal with them." The Cassette Carrier adds after a moment, and this time it's Prowl the one who nods.

"I could be convinced to keep it alive and undamaged for that purpose."

"Just alive is fine."

The smirks they exchange are worthy of Special Operations.

Prowl's sure Jazz would be proud.

"Very well. I'll see what I can do with the mechs around the _Deliberata_. What will you…"

"We still have no idea where, exactly, I am. I'll try to contact the Dinobots and Predacons now that I'm fully aware, and see if I can organize a prison break." Soundwave answers, serious once more. "I'll let you know as soon as I have something."

"Same here." And Prowl knows the promise isn't an empty one, because, even though he can't actually contact the Cassette Carrier, there's a bond between them, one that he can use now that he's aware of its existence. "I'll find a way to contact Starscream again, and we'll see from there."

"Take care."

"You too."

And Soundwave vanishes.

But while the connection is closed, the bond is not.

It'll never be so again.

Full of a confidence and strength he had never realized he'd lost, Prowl squares his doorwings, arranges his field into his 'uniform', and gets out of the room.

And almost slams into a drone.

Had he had any weapons, the thing would be deactivated.

Since he doesn't, he just takes a step back.

With a simple nod, the drone walks away.

It takes Prowl a moment to compose himself again, to remind himself of where he is and what he will be dealing with, before he can get out of his room again.

_Quintesson mothership. Drones all around, maybe a dozen mechs between Civilian and Military, if I'm lucky._

_And one Quintesson Judge overlooking everything._

_What the _Pit_ did I get myself into?_

* * *

Drones, drones, drones, and, surprise surprise, _more_ drones.

Fortunately, his systems identify them easily, so there aren't any weird instances of 'forgetting' someone's name.

However, he has yet to find any Cybertronian.

That he hasn't found any of the Spektor triplets, however, fills him with hope too.

Yet, the fact he has to stick to a set schedule and pattern of actions has him, to use a human expression, frothing at the mouth.

So, if he stabs his jellified Energon with a bit more force than necessary, he pays it no mind.

"Whoa, what did that steak do to you?"

"Are we safe to sit down?"

He startles at the voices, so lost has he been in the cursing tirade in his processor, but the sight as he turns around is more than enough to disperse his anger.

"Ah—I—Sorry. It's safe." He manages to answer, managing to keep his sheepish smile small enough not to be suspicious, and the 'Spektor triplets' sit at his side and in front of him, carrying their own trays of food.

The Reflector Gestalt, _of course_.

And isn't it ironic, that he's been dealing with Decepticons all along?

"So, what did the steak do to you?" Hugh—Viewfinder—asks, nodding at his plate of forgotten jellified fuel of different mixtures, and he doesn't have to fake his grimace.

"Be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I had… a Hell of a wake up this morning."

"You don't say. What did you do, fall from the bed? Get impossibly tangled in the covers?" Elijah—Spyglass—chuckles, and he can't stop himself from smiling back.

"I was metaphorically slapped in the face with a revelation."

"So bad was it that you're making you _lunch_ pay back for it?"

"Not necessarily _bad_, Victor. Just… _big_." He answers, giving Viewfinder a small shrug before finally getting to actually refueling instead of 'playing' with his food.

"About what?"

"Remember when I told you about my nickname?"

"Prowler, right?"

"Yeah, well. I remembered that it's nothing but a nickname."

Silence, only broken by his soft chewing.

"Yeah, a nickname _is_ a nickname." Spyglass points out, looking as unnerved as his brothers, and the Autobot chuckles softly.

"No, I meant that it was just that. It… it has meaning, but the _actual_ name I'd rather be referred as isn't that one." Three curious pairs of visor-covered optics with matching tilts of pale purple helms are the only push he needs, and, keeping his nervousness and _not_ giddiness at bay, he leans forward a bit. "Prowl."

For a moment, nothing happens.

And then, the Decepticons exchange confused looks.

"But that's almost like your other nickname." Viewfinder answers with confusion, and the Tactician's spark shrinks painfully.

"Besides, 'Prowler' sounds a lot more like a nickname than 'Prowl'." Spyglass adds, leaning back in his seat as much as the lack of back allows him.

"Because it _is_." He tells them, desperation _almost_ leaking into his voice and faceplate, analyzing them. "But 'Prowl' is not."

"That makes no sense." The last brother points out, and the Praxian finally sighs in defeat and returns to staring at his fuel.

"No, I guess it doesn't." He whispers, poking at some jellified Energon before forcing himself to intake it.

He'll need the energy, no matter how much he feels like going back to his room to scream at walls or flip the table.

"Hey, but if you feel better if we call you Prowl, we'll do it man."

"Yeah, you're our friend. Besides, some codenames are far weirder and make less sense than that, and we still use them."

"Thanks, Spectro, Spyglass, but you really don't need to—"

"Er, whoa, wait. Those aren't our codenames."

Prowl freezes.

_Slag. I slipped. How could I slip like that? This is—_

"You know, I like them. I call dibs on Spyglass!" Said mech exclaims happily, smiling widely, and his brothers snort.

"Of course you do, that's _your_ name. Mine's Spectro."

"Alright, then I'll be… Uh…"

"Viewfinder?" He suggests, a glimmer of hope growing in his spark, and the Decepticon beams.

"Yeah! It's perfect! Thanks, Prowl!"

"Anytime."

The conversation is far more easy-going and enjoyable after that, and even though he hasn't managed to get the Reflector Gestalt to remember, the fact that they're using their 'nicknames' with even more ease than their 'names' is enough to count this as a victory.

When they stand up, ready to go drop their empty trays and get back to work, Prowl finally realizes he has forgotten about something in the whole 'waking up' thing.

"Spectro? Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"Actually, I'd like it of all of you." The other two were also paying attention, but, at those words, all three nod. "If you catch a Tetrajet pilot codenamed Death Cry, would you pass along a message?" More nods. "Tell him Prowl sends Starscream his regards, and that him and Soundwave are waiting for him to come back."

"Will do." Spectro answers after a moment to make sure that's all of the message, nodding again.

"Who's Starscream? And Soundwave?" Viewfinder asks, curious, and the Tactician gives them a small smile that is both sad and happy.

"My brothers."

The sound of fallen jaws follows him for almost half a klik before the three mechs reboot their processors and follow to catch up, but, no matter how much they ask, Prowl just smiles mysteriously and gives always the same answer.

"You'll find out when it's time."

* * *

**AN:** Short chapter is short, and the wait has been rather long. Sorry, but it was this or nothing, and I thought it was better a bit more than nothing at all. Plus, what matters is quality rather than quantity, right? ;)

So, Prowl-filled chapter! And we finally find out who the Spektor triplets and Soundwave's 'roars' are, plus we get a mention of another character (remember, if named, it's a canon character), so, any guesses as to who Cole Hunter is?

Next chapter... may take a long while to come, my life's awfully busy and chaotic lately but I will NOT abandon a story, least of all this one. They're all my babies, but this is my oldest baby, and I'll see it through even if it costs me my life (or my sleep, because the slagging plot bunnies keep coming in the wee hours of the night and it's so hard to get to sleep with them bouncing around my head...).

Until then, enjoy!

**Angel Heart:** I hope this chapter answered more about Prowl, Soundwave and the Quintessons ;)

About Jazz: He was part of the Guardians of Cybertron, who were, essentially, what you suggested. They may have been involved in a lot more shadier things, though, and they were, as memory!Prowl pointed out, as corrupted as those they served. I hope that answered some things (I'm planning on having things further explained sometime ahead, but, if not, I'll probably add a note).


	52. Denied Truths

The patrol is going well, calm and peaceful, so Reeds uses the chance to stretch his wings, metaphorically.

He loves flying, and these instances of quiet are the perfect ones to enjoy himself before getting into battle again.

Fighting is nice too, exhilarating in a way he can't describe, but it's _not_ the time to let himself forget about everything else.

Especially now that he's in Soldier.

Battles have a whole different meaning now, with him being able to literally drop on the Black Beasts to neutralize them with a shot of his arm-cannons.

They say he's a natural, but Steve knows the extra training he bought out of Cyclonus in exchange for some flight tips has helped with that.

Regardless of the reason, it means he doesn't have someone watching over his shoulder all the time, especially now that the Air Commander is no longer his supervisor.

::Death Cry, you're entering _Deliberata_'s range, request new operator.:: A voice crackles through his comm and, as soon as the soft beep of the _Quintessa_ signaling the loss of contact follows, he opens a line to the open channel of the new mothership.

"Death Cry requesting a slot."

A moment of silence, and then crackling.

::Looker acknowledging, establishing connection.:: The new operator answers, and Reeds looks down at the communications pad.

As soon as the blinking green light stabilizes he opens the private line.

"Connection established."

And, that's it, he can go back to enjoying the soothing flight again.

::Death Cry?::

Or not. Looks like he was caught by a chatty operator.

"I hear you, Looker. What is it?" He asks calmly, because had it been trouble, the person at the other end of the line would have already said so.

::I have a message for you.::

"A what?" He asks, curious, focusing his attention on the comm line instead of letting his thoughts roam free.

::A message. Prowl sends Starscream his regards, and he and Soundwave are waiting for him to come back.::

His heart stops beating, eyes widening as his breath catches in his throat and his hands clench tightly over the controls—

_"Welcome back."_

_"__Good to be back. Though if there's a next time, a tap on the shoulder would be preferable to a punch to the face.__ And __next time you get into my processor, I'll make sure you enjoy a nice view of the clouds as you fall through them.__"_

_"__Alright, new rule. From now on, we'll be together. No more slipping away or closing off because of a theory. Whether we rise o__r fall, we go together. Got it?"_

_"'Till all are—"_

Red fills the cockpit and he has his weapons charged and aimed at the dots swarming his sensors before he can take another breath.

Pushing the—the _hallucination_ away, he focuses completely on the fight.

"Slag it all, Viewfinder, be more attentive!" He shouts into the comm, finding himself unable to do more than evade for some seconds due to the amount and closeness of the Black Beasts.

::Hey, they came out of nowhere! What was I supposed to do? At your seven—::

He whirls around and onto himself, evading the attack and returning fire to make the Aerial vanish from his scans.

"Ugh, never mind that." He grumbles half-heartedly, shooting a couple more of the Black Beasts before finding his surroundings clear enough that he has to search for his prey.

::Wait a moment, you called me Viewfinder!::

"So I messed your codename, big deal." He hisses, diving towards a cluster of red dots—

And, with some deft clicks, the whole cockpit dismantles and rearranges around him so that he's standing, suspended by the harness around his torso and waist and the secondary controls connecting to his specialized boots as the Tetrajet transforms to its humanoid form around him.

Crouching to absorb the force of the impact, the new sensors and controls making sure the modified Cybertronian mimics his movements, Steve Reeds touches the ground.

Actually, he squashes a Black Beast into the ground, but technicalities.

He whirls around with a leg extended, sending the two enemies closest to him onto their backs before straightening and start shooting with the cannons now positioned as the humanoid Tetrajet's arms.

The red dots vanish all around.

::No, you didn't!:: And that would be the operator, though what is he babbling about— ::I mean, you did, because that isn't my codename, but Viewfinder _is_ my nickname! Prowl gave it to me!::

_Sand and blue sky and wind and move to the side because he's about to catch me and no way am I going to make it _that_ easy—_

He shakes his head to throw the fake memory away, focusing once more on the large red shapes all around.

"Viewfinder! I'm in the middle of a _battle_ here! Do you really think this is the _time_ to be gossiping about your _nickname_?!" He shrieks, evading a couple of shots by rolling behind some rocky structure, carefully peeking out to fire back at the two Black Beasts.

::Ah, right, sorry! To your nine!:: A quick shot, and the barely there red dot vanishes. ::It's just that Fowler was the one to give us the message after the whole deal with the nicknames, and how he wants to be called—::

"Wait, _wait_! Fowler?" He cuts, even his shooting stilling in surprise, forcing him to duck back with a curse when an attack comes way too close to his Tetrajet's 'head'. "As in Ron Fowler, from _Ark_?"

::Yes! Wait, how do you—::

"I'm Steve Reeds, Military Second of _Ark_."

::Holy sh—Above!:: He rolls away, firing with the movement, and the Black Beast falls a bit further, flickering, before another shot finishes the job. ::I thought he was the only survivor.::

"I was told _I_ was the only survivor. How—How is he?" His voice softens almost to the point of being inaudible at the last part, dark eyes scanning his sensors without actually seeing what's in them, only that there's no red.

::Well, he's… He was exposed to the Black Plague, and he—::

"I know that! I mean now, how is he _now_."

::Er, working like the rest of—Oh, right, you mean—That is, he's fine, better. Though he's been weird these last days, I don't really know how to explain it… It's like he woke up a different person one day but he's still trying to be the Fowler we know, if you get what I'm saying?::

_"I don't see the difference."_

_"Hell_o_?! Is that excuse of a brain connected to your mouth or is the problem between your eyes and that lot of empty space?"_

_"Yes, there is a difference, but what I _meant_ is that he's acting like he's on duty. And seeing how he's literally _living_ in his workstation, that's kind of expected."_

_"No, it's _not_ expected. You know him from Governance meetings and Civilian Government, but _I_ know him from the Enforcers, too. And those first two things _were_ work, but the Enforcers? They weren't!"_

"Yes, I… I understand." He whispers, though his voice is tremulous, a hand having left the controls to rub at his forehead in an effort to stop the hallucinations.

_What's wrong with me?_

::At your six!::

He whirls around at that, quickly focusing on the matter at hand, but he's been too slow.

The Black Beast, a Runner judging by the size and its leaner bulk, tackles him to the ground, and, cursing loudly, Reeds finds himself trying to kick his attacker away when it manages to immobilize his arm-cannons.

He feels resistance against a foot and, faster than the creature can move, _pushes_.

However, the Beast is holding too tightly onto his arms, and he only manages to flip it over his head and onto its back.

But that's more than enough.

Whirling to his feet, he throws his arms out against the rocky formation he'd been using as shield—

And the Runner lets go just before impact, bracing against the wall he'd been trying to slam it into and using it to bounce back onto him.

A burst of his engines, and Reeds finds himself flying higher and higher—with a Black Beast hanging from his hip-latches.

More than close enough to press a charged cannon against it and—

The creature lets go, the loss of weight destabilizing him for a second, before he has to scramble into a controlled nosedive while in humanoid mode to evade the shooting from the falling Beast and an incoming Aerial.

He manages to get rid of the newcomer, thanks to Viewfinder's instructions, and almost crashes into the ground before he manages to pull himself up—

And gets tackled again, arm-cannons immobilized against the fuselage of the body as him and his new attacker are sent rolling from the force of the assault.

They stop, and Reeds snarls dangerously when he sees the slagging thing is a _Runner_.

"Stubborn little glitch! I'm going to deactivate you for this!" He shouts, the reports from damaged wings and engines giving him enough strength to break the hold and roll back to his feet, shooting at the meddlesome creature to force it away.

But instead of retreating, it bounces back, too close for him to use his cannons, and—

The impact is strong enough to lift his frame into the air with a loud metallic ripping sound, and Steve finds himself flailing for a bit before he crashes to the ground again and rolls to a crouching position, ready to blast that—

Robot?

Eyes wide, hands shaking, breath caught in his throat, and sweat sliding down his temple, along a couple of bruises here and there from the impacts, but the machinery, the screens and panels all around him are intact.

So, why the _Pit_ are half of the scans in his cockpit showing not the grid and vaguely humanoid red shapes they are supposed to, but a wasteland of rust-colored metallic rocks and ruins and a mostly black human-like robot with tiny horns and a blue visor over a determined smirk?

The robot shifts, getting ready to jump again, and Reeds scrambles away so hastily that his Tetrajet's feet slip on the debris and send him flat onto his back.

"Viewfinder! Viewfinder, what the Pit is going on?!" He screeches, more than a little horrified as he kicks himself further away from the surprised-looking robot, who has stopped in its place, until his back finds resistance. "_Viewfinder_!"

::What, _what_?! What's going on, what's wrong? You have a Black Beast just in front of you, a Runner, why aren't you—::

"That thing is _not_ a Black Beast!" He shouts back, eyes moving from the normal scans to the image of the robot, head tilted with the visor a deeper blue and what looks like confusion on its face. "That—My scans are all wrong! I'm getting a _visual_!"

::You—But—That's impossible! The Black Plague—::

"This has to be a hallucination, this can't—Get me out of here, I'm not fit for duty anymore!" He shouts, shaking harshly as his breathing hitches, his chest clenching almost painfully and the cockpit feeling overtly hot. "I—There's something wrong with my Tetrajet, I—"

::Hold on, Starscream, I've contacted the Air Commander, he'll get you out in an instant. Just stay put and for Primus' sake, get rid of that Black Beast! No matter what you're seeing, _trust me_ on this one, that thing is a Black Beast!::

"But—"

He can't. No matter that he has no idea what the robot is supposed to be, he just… can't.

::Starscream, slag it all, shoot!::

And then the robot takes a step closer, and whatever kept him frozen vanishes.

The robot yelps as it jumps away from the shots, even though he can't hear anything from the outside, _as it should be_.

But, instead of firing back—and it _has_ a weapon, some kind of gun attached to its hip—or running away, the mostly black creature crouches down with its hands up, as in surrender, and despite his cannons being charged and ready to shoot again, Steve finds himself stopping once more.

He… he can't.

::Reeds!:: A new voice shouts through a new line, and the robot scrambles away from some new shooting before a really well-known Tetrajet in humanoid mode lands in front of him.

And then it turns around, and the shots he'd been keeping back fly to the newcomer with a horrified shout.

::Reeds, what are you _doing_?! It's me, Cyclonus!:: The voice shouts as the robot, its face pale and with hollowed cheeks and two long and sharp-looking horns protruding from its forehead, whirls away from the attack, its red optics paling as they look right into Steve's eyes.

He stills his shots just enough to push himself to his feet and move away from the pile of debris that had been keeping him immobile, but immediately after he points his cannons back at the unknown creatures, the Flier on one side and the Black Beast on the other.

But he doesn't fire again, instead looking from one to the other in horror, his scans identifying them as ally and enemy, but his sight telling him a completely different thing.

One is big and with eyes, horns and folded wings and claws.

The other is small and lean, with a visor and tiny horns and white on its chest and forearms and forelegs.

But, beyond the obvious and many differences, Steve can see more, something so horrible, so devastating, that he can only whimper and fight to keep his cannons pointed at least in the general vicinity of both robots.

He can see the similarities.

::Reeds, calm down. Go to the _Deliberata_, it's obvious your sensors have been damaged and are giving you conflicted signals, you need to step out of the fight and get them checked up.::

He turns to the winged robot for a moment, and then, he looks at the other creature, who is carefully hiding behind some large metallic planks, so that the newcomer doesn't have a clear shot of it anymore, but making no effort to get out of Steve's sight, something nagging at the back of his brain, telling him he's seen it somewhere before.

The Black Beast is still keeping its hands up to let him know it means no harm, and when their gazes meet, it goes as far as to give him a bright smile and wave one of the hands in a salute.

His trembling increases so badly that when the thing that is supposed to be Cyclonus' Tetrajet steps forward, the shot he aims at it goes wide enough that the winged robot doesn't even flinch.

::Reeds, listen to me. You have to—::

"You're the same!" He shouts, taking a step back, and, through the real scans, he can see the red blob shift. "You and the Black Beasts, you are the same!"

The larger robot freezes, surprise clearly seen on its face.

::What? Reeds what are you—::

"I can see you! The wings, the red eyes, the horns—I can see you!"

Had it been possible, the robot would have paled, its face distorting with horror.

::Reeds—No, _Starscream_, you have to—::

"Don't call me that!" He roars, pointing both of his now far more stable cannons towards the winged Beast, making it tense and take a step back. "You have no right to call me that!"

::_Reeds_, it's me, Cyclonus! Whatever you're seeing is a hallucination, you need to snap out of it! It's not safe for you to be here anymore, you have to—::

"Have to what? Go back and let them play me again? Go back to have my memory messed with?" He has no idea where the words come from, but the way the robot grimaces tells him he's not wrong.

And that means…

"Who are you? Who am _I_?"

::You're Steve Reeds, former Second in Command and Air Commander of the Military Base _Nemesis_ in the _Ark_ Protecto—:: The rest of the word gets cut with a chocked sound as, with an irate snarl, the Arkian feels something on his back _shift_.

His wings. His Tetrajet's wings, laying against his back so as to not get in the way while in humanoid mode.

There should be absolutely no way for him to move those in this mode.

Just as there's no possible way to get a visual through his scans, because they haven't been _made_ for that.

And what does _that_ tell him?

_"Remember what I told you I found? I fear there may be more to it than just a prankster. Think, sir. Papers can be lost and data deleted, but how do you erase the minds of a whole Protectodome?"_

_"Thinking about the lack of officers before us? Because believe me, the joke that runs around about me having held my position for so long that no one remembers the previous Air Commander is no joke."_

_"We checked."_

"No… No, no, no…"

_"**Cool. What do you transform into?**"_

_"Transform?"_

_"Oh."_

_"You know what he's talking about?"_

_"Remember when Skywarp said I am a Tetrajet? Acid Storm, the one I was talking to before, said he was going to teach me how to be one after I was done with the humans."_

"No, that… that wasn't real, I'm not…"

_"_That_ is for the warp drive. And be thankful I don't decide to let you know what the crash was like. I swear, it was almost worse than my own."_

_"You… felt that?"_

_"I heard you too, didn't I?"_

"Ted, Grant… I'm sorry, I'm… This is _wrong_… I—"

_"**And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve…**"_

_"**So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean. Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…**"_

_"**Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between… Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies…**"_

"—**across this new divide.**" He whispers, hands clenching his head tightly as if that—

No, wait, that doesn't feel like hands, and _that_ doesn't feel like his head, so what—

He opens his eyes, pulling his hands off his face—

And sees he's no longer in the Tetrajet's cockpit, but one eye can only see the scans as if they were being projected right into it while the other sees the dust and grime-covered metallic ground under spindly black legs and two clawed hands at the end of what look like a Tetrajet's arm-cannons.

With a hitching of his breath, he suddenly realizes that he's no longer in his Tetrajet because he _is_ his Tetrajet.

"No… No, no, no…" He can't hear himself speak, can't even open his mouth, because there's something holding it closed, so one clawed hand flies to it—

And finds resistance.

A mask.

He's wearing a _mask_?

The other hand joins the first, and, to his growing horror, he feels the part of mask covering the eye that can see something other than scans isn't there.

The eye that isn't covered can see a world and the robotic creatures. The other…

Dread growing with the realization, he clasps the broken edges of the mask and _pulls_.

With a ripping metallic sound and a sharp pain on his face he throws the remains of the metallic screen away with one hand while covering his face with the other, huddling into himself with a tremulous step back.

::Reeds!::

The voice comes from right into his ear, as if he had a phone pressed against it, and he jerks his head up.

This time, both eyes can see the ruined world and the worried and horrified winged robot rushing to his side.

With a snarl on his face, he pulls a fist back and, before the other can react, smashes it right into its face, sending it to the ground with a soundless crash.

There must be more to the mask that he hasn't managed to remove, because he can neither hear nor talk, no matter how hard he tries or how loud he screams.

Movement from the side catches his attention, and he immediately lifts an arm while the hand breaks apart to hide inside the glowing barrel of the charging cannon, and the smaller black and white robot, looking dumbstruck and hopeful yet in denial, stops with a jerk, its hands flying up in a non-threatening gesture once more as its pale blue visual band analyzes him and—

A sharp pang against the back of his head, and he falls to one knee with a gasp as he presses his remaining hand against his temple to try to stop it.

::Reeds?:: Cyclonus asks once more through what he now recognizes as the comm line, but the winged robot doesn't move from the ground, even though it's staring at him in worry.

And that's when it hits.

It isn't a robot.

It's _Cyclonus_.

"How… How could… What are we?" He asks softly, making sure to, somehow, do it through the comm, and, slowly, the winged creature sits up. "Why didn't anyone tell me what we are? How did you manage to make it look like—"

::Reeds, please, calm down.:: Clawed hands are lifting into a non-threatening gesture, and he forces himself to take a deep breath to still his shaking, looking between the smaller stunned robot and the winged one. ::It's a long story.::

"But you knew all along. How about… How about Galvatron, and Rhodes, and Captain Swan…"

::Galvatron and Scourge know, the others don't. Look, this… We are part of the Cybertronian race, mechanical beings able to transform. The Masters created us to help them, but something went wrong and the first of us broke apart from them and managed to get into a war among themselves. The Masters fell back, and, when the situation was adequate, they captured some of the estranged Cybertronian to try to determine what had gone wrong, to see if they could get rid of the faulty coding that made them rebel. But they haven't found such a solution yet, so those with the faulty coding are kept under the illusion of being human to help protect the Masters and capture the remaining glitched ones for them to repair. You are one of those glitched, and thus you were kept under the illusion.::

Even before the explanation is over, Steve is shaking his head, the arm-cannon having lost its charge and regained the hand that is now laying on his lap as limply as the other as he tries to process everything.

"So, the Black Beasts… And the _Ark_…"

::They are the glitched ones. And the Dome was breached by them and they captured and reverted you all to their faulty beliefs.::

"Faulty?"

::That the Masters are not worth serving.::

Before he can realize it, he finds himself standing, Cyclonus having jerked away in surprise.

"Worth… We're… _servants_? Slaves?"

::No! The Masters created us to help them, not to… We are _not_ slaves.:: The winged robot—Cybertronian—hurries to reassure, standing up too, while the smaller one looks between them in confusion and wariness.

"Can you fly anytime you want?"

::Wha—::

"Can you stop fighting?"

::I don't _want_ to stop! I'm helping our brothers.:: Cyclonus hurries to reassure, but there's something in his voice…

"But if you wanted, could you? And how about flying anytime you wish?"

::I… O-of course.::

But there's no certainty.

In fact, he looks downright worried and even a bit scared as he ponders the questions, and Reeds' dread grows.

"What do you want to do? To _really_ do?"

Cyclonus looks at him, at his serious gaze and stance, before turning to the so-called Black Beast, who is simply observing them calmly, doing nothing to threaten them, before once more facing Reeds.

::I want to talk to a real Seeker.::

That last word sounds so familiar that trying to identify it is giving him a headache, so Steve pushes it away.

Now is not the time.

"And can you?" A small shake of Cyclonus' head. "Can't you ask the Masters to let you do so?"

::Of course not, all the Seekers are glitched and need to—::

"I don't want to fight anymore. I want to talk to that Black Beast over there and with those Masters and see if it can be arranged that all the Cybertronians can decide with whom to stay. Do you think they would agree to let me do that?"

And the winged mech—what does _that_ mean?—hunches into himself with another shake of his head.

Steve steps forward and, softly, lifts Cyclonus' face so that he can stare into his optics—shouldn't it be _eyes_?

"Then we _are_ slaves."

The horned mech jerks away so hastily that he stumbles, but Reeds catches him before he falls down.

And tenses, when, instead of pulling away, Cyclonus presses closer, burying his face against Steve's black chest and clinging to him like—

A child.

A young child.

A newspark.

_::I want to talk to a real Seeker.::_

Starscream _is_ a Seeker.

And… a Vosian.

And part of the Cybertronian Defense Force, and the Energon Seekers and…

The Decepticons.

_::Prowl sends Starscream his regards, and he and Soundwave are waiting for him to come back.::_

He remembers.

He remembers _everything_.

He pulls the Air Commander—the _newspark_—closer as he tries to calm down, fiddling with the restrictive code he can access and recognize now and—

The sounds of the whistling wind, of the dying battle further away, of the soft whimpers of the Seeker in his arms, suddenly fill his audials.

But that's not what he focuses on.

Because the black and white mech staring at them in utter confusion and disbelief clear in his blue visor is someone he can recognize.

"**Jazz.**"

The Head of Special Operations tenses, but the flash of recognition in his visor is somehow wrong.

"That… That's my name in English, isn't it?"

_No… no, no, _no_! He can't be still trapped in that—_

_Alright, calm down. Calm down. He needs to—_

English.

Ever since their capture, and all through their stay in the Resistance base, they spoke Cybertronian, at first because that was the only language they could understand, and later so that those that hadn't broken through the illusion, meaning himself and Jazz, could do so too.

But there was an instance, a special circumstance back in the Protectodome, when they _did_ speak English.

After all, the song isn't Cybertronian.

"**And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve…**" He can't sing, his voice box doesn't allow for such a thing, but he can modulate it well enough, and, judging by Jazz's tensing, he recognizes it. "**So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean. Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…** **Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between… Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies…**"

"**Across this new divide.**" They finish in unison, Cyclonus having long ago gone still in his embrace, listening intently.

And Jazz's visor, so pale that it's almost white, flashes with a mixture of realization and recognition, and Starscream falls silent and lets him continue on his own.

"**In every loss, in every lie, in every truth that you'd deny… And each regret, and each goodbye, was a mistake too great to hide…**"

Their gazes meet again, smiles on their faceplates, and the Seeker joins the song again.

"**And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve… So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean. Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…** **Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between… Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies… ****Across this new divide.**"

"Primus…" Jazz whispers with a breathless tiny laugh, rubbing his faceplate with a servo. "I had almost forgotten that part of—" And he stops, tense and startled.

And the next thing he knows, there's another mech clinging to Starscream, a smile so bright on his faceplate that almost blinds him when he sees it.

"I remember! I remember everything now! Holy Primus, Screamer, I _remember_!" Jazz shouts joyously, letting him go with a bright laugh that makes even the startled Flier smile, regardless of Cyclonus now clinging to him tighter than before. "I… I remember… I can't _believe_ they really managed to make me forget all that much, those slaggers. If they hadn't linked it to those remnants of the Guardians' secrecy code… I _thought_ I'd gotten rid of all that when I left them, how could _that_ slip past my scans?"

"Jazz?" The saboteur turns around, his baffled and annoyed expression immediately turning again into a blinding smile. "Prowl, Soundwave and a bunch of other mechs are still up there."

And the Autobot slaps a servo against his faceplate before straightening, professional once more.

"Right. You should probably come back to Darkmount so we can prepare a rescue. And, by the way, who's that? Don't tell me he's _yours_?"

"Wha—No! He's _not_ my newspark!" He reproaches, but the Grounder just snickers, though he calms down when the younger Seeker slowly gets out of the embrace. "He's Cyclonus, and he's a Quintesson-created mech. As far as I know, only him and two others were actually created to monitor the drones and the reprogrammed."

"I… Yes, that's right." The horned Flier answers after a moment, looking between the two older mechs. "I… can't believe the Masters…"

"Cyclonus." Jazz calls, softly, a small understanding smile on his faceplate. "I used to work for something called the Guardians of Cybertron. Pit, I was _created_ as one, since my creators were part of them. I was taught to deactivate, torture, steal and kidnap, all for the good of Cybertron and those inhabiting it. Turned out the Senate was using us to benefit themselves instead of having us deal with planet-wide security risks, or investigating reports of Spark Eaters and Body Snatchers, like we should've."

"How did you… How can you be _sure_ that's what was happening?" The younger mech asks in a whisper, and, when the Grounder approaches, he doesn't shy away.

"Because I took a step back and _looked_. And what I saw was the harsh, cruel truth that I had been wrong all along. Now, you try it. Take a step back, don't think of the Quintessons as the Masters, think of _yourself_ as a Cybertronian. What do you see?"

And the Seeker looks around, at the ruins, towards where the battle is no longer raging, up at the starry sky where the motherships are orbiting… but he's not searching for shadows, he's staring at the pinpricks of light instead.

"The stars are right."

Jazz gives Starscream a confused frown, and the Decepticon smiles widely with a nod, pulsing comfort and security through the newly opened bond.

The stars are all a Seeker needs to tell how to get home.

"It may be broken and the people may not be perfect and tend to get into fights and disagreements and arguments, but this is home." The older Flier whispers, also staring at the starry sky, before turning to the younger one, who is looking at him with bright pleading eyes. "For _all_ of us."

Cyclonus smiles, relief and pure joy in his expression, and Starscream just wraps a wing around him when the slightly taller yet far younger Seeker curls against his side.

When he turns his gaze to the sky again, though, he looks for shadows.

"Jazz, contact Megatron and Prime. I'm going up there to get our own back."

"Right now?"

"Yes. The sooner we get rid of the Quintessons, the sooner we can get back to repairing Cybertron."

"I should go to the _Derodomontatus_." Cyclonus cuts, straightening with the seriousness and professionalism of the Air Commander he is. "It's the transport ship, with the Space Bridge machinery, and there are only drones there. Should I disable it, none of the three up there would be able to go anywhere."

"Prowl and Soundwave are in the _Deliberata_. I'll go there, break them out of their illusion, and then we should storm the _Quintessa_." He agrees, and Jazz scowls as he crosses his arms against his chest plates.

"What about me? I'm _not_ staying here."

Both Seekers exchange a look.

There are three of them. There are three motherships. But Jazz would be recognized as an enemy as soon as he gets there, so it isn't like they can 'drop him off' in one of the ships.

_::Prowl sends Starscream his regards, and he and Soundwave are waiting for him to come back.::_

"Prowl and Soundwave are already aware." He whispers, optics pale in realization, before a smile grows on his faceplate. "Jazz, I'm going to drop you at the _Deliberata_. With their help from the inside, you should be able to take care of it."

"And you?"

"I'm going to the _Quintessa_. I have unfinished businesses to take care of."

* * *

**AN:** Long chapter, yay! And lots happening in it too, double yay! And... wait, what happend here? Cyclonus, what are you _doing_? O.o

And, _finally_, we hear what was left of Linkin Park's _New Divide_. Took slagging long enough...

The only thing I'll say is: Can you hear the Doomsday Clock ticking?

**sakaiya:** Whoa, thanks! I'm glad the short chapter wasn't too disappointing, but I hope this one makes up for the shortness nevertheless XP

**Angel Heart:** Glad to hear that ^^ And I'm happy the thing with Prowl showed, 'cause yes, you're absolutely right about him, and no, the Quints won't like what's coming next *insert evil laughter* About Starscream and Jazz: Need I say more? XP The Reflectors will have their moment next chapter, and so will Soundwave *insert evil smirk* Oh, yes, Soundwave's _really_ going to enjoy next chapter.


	53. Facing the Future

"Prime! Optimus!"

The Autobot leader turns around, startled at the shouting, and all talk about their new major assault is forgotten when Blaster bursts into the room.

"What's going on? Did something—"

"It's Jazz!" The Communications Officer cuts, so many emotions on his faceplate and optics that they're indecipherable.

Optimus feels all his systems stop.

"Primus, did they catch him again?" Megatron asks hurriedly, servos clenching into tight fists, but the red and yellow mech shakes his helm with a large smile.

"No, no! He remembers everything!"

"Those are excellent news." Ultra Magnus answers, a bit of tension vanishing from his frame. "But wasn't he on the battlefield?"

Blaster's smile wavers.

"Yeah, well, this is when the good and bad news get really messed up. Jazz just called, said he remembers everything, and that he's with Starscream and he remembers everything too, and so do Prowl and Soundwave—" Megatron and Optimus exchange large joyous smiles, and Ironhide lets out a loud victorious 'yes'. "—and that they are on their way to the Quintesson motherships to end this once and for all."

"_What_?!" All mechs in the room roar, including Shockwave, before Blaster gestures for them to calm down.

"That's what he said! That Prowl and Soundwave are in one of the motherships and that they have help in the inside, and that they are going to use the surprise before the Quintessons try anything else. He said to get ready for whatever may happen, and that's when the connection cut."

"Cut? You mean, he ended it?"

"No. I mean he entered some kind of blackout bubble and I lost him."

The officers exchange a look that can be summed in two words before they burst out of the room to ready all possible troops for the largest—and, hopefully, latest—attack on the Quintessons.

As they get outside, Optimus carrying a weapon for the first time since their capture, those two words echo in his processor once more as he turns his attention to the starry sky.

_Aw, slag._

* * *

Soundwave can't really talk to the Dinobots or Predacons, no matter what he tries, even though they're closer than Prowl—most likely.

Though, to be fair, it isn't as if he had ever been able to communicate with anyone else by using his enhanced field and over-developed communications suite before, bond or no bond.

He suspects it may have something to do with whatever the Quintessons have done to him, that they inadvertently—because it's hard to think of a reason why they would do that while they're trying to keep him subdued—augmented his natural capabilities, or bettered them somehow.

Which, to be fair, isn't that bad when he actually _knows_ who he is and what he should be doing.

He almost feels like giving their captors a quick deactivation in a sort of thanks, but, as soon as the thought crosses his processor, he deletes it.

The only way he'll be that merciful will be if he has no other choice than to eliminate the threat quickly.

Nevertheless, despite being unable to actually communicate with his fellow prisoners, he has managed to establish clear enough contact that they all know he's there.

That doesn't mean he stops trying to get _more_.

Besides, the Dinobots are way too young to have been trapped so long without knowledge of their creators' whereabouts and status, especially because of the same bond-blocking fields that cocoon the mothership like they did the Protectodome.

So, it comes as a surprise when, during one of his probing sessions, he locates not only one new spark, but two—and _recognizes_ them.

"Starscream?! Jazz?!" He can feel his frame tense, the servos carefully holding the datapad tightening to the point the screen cracks, but, fortunately, he hasn't spoken out loud.

::Soundwave!::

His spark swells with joy and relief at the twin shouts and mirroring waves of emotion through the until then inactive bonds.

::Soundwave, Starscream's dropping me off, but I'm still labeled as an enemy, so we need you to—::

"I'll take care of it. Are we going to—"

::Yes, once and for all!::

Soundwave's visor blazes to activation.

Ignoring the voice through the hidden speakers, the Cassette Carrier discards the pad, gets to his pedes and turns to the wall.

And then, making use of the inherent sound-abilities of all Cassette Carriers, he sends a sonic pulse that would have made Thundercracker turn green with envy, and, after a couple of nanokliks of trembling, the whole wall collapses.

Unable to contact Prowl directly now that he needs to focus on bringing down as many walls of the rest of cells as possible before the drones arrive, Soundwave sends just a pulse of joy and burning determination, and gets a mirroring one from the Praxian.

Neither the Dinobots nor the Predacons have escaped untouched from the Quintessons' manipulations, all of them looking sharper and rougher, no longer bearing the rounded and simple frames of their times warring on Earth or, in the Decpeticons' case, of their past on Cybertron, but showing instead bladed spines and sharp ridges and enormous natural weapons in the shape of teeth, claws and horns.

And, while all of them are more than happy to see Soundwave and be told the time has come to get rid of their captors and regain their freedom, even if that means they have to cooperate with members of the opposing faction, all their cheer and playfulness vanishes when the first wave of drones bursts into the corridor.

To the Cassette Carrier's delight, the Quintessons were even nice enough to improve their armor to resist the scrambler shots.

So, he allows those freed to enjoy themselves by ripping their enemies apart while he brings down the rest of walls to liberate the remaining ones.

Time to do some damage.

* * *

Prowl's rank as an operator has changed a lot since he first joined the ranks.

Once, he had a post in the lowest tier, monitoring two Cybertronian.

Now, he sits with the Reflector Gestalt in one of the highest, looking after three crafts.

He would like to influence the fighting by giving them inaccurate instructions and indications, but, in order to maintain his position, he can't.

Regardless, it isn't as if the drones he's tasked with watching over are that efficient to begin with, so he has yet to manage to keep all three functioning during a battle.

Useless. If it wasn't because of the advantage of numbers, they could never represent such a danger to even the less trained of Cybertronian.

He's snapped out of his musings when he cuts the connection with the remaining two drones—and he's sure they are drones, no real Cybertronian would have acted as his 'charges' did during battle—and sees that Viewfinder, sitting next to him, seems about ready to suffer a panic attack.

Spectro, at his other side, is trying to calm him down, but the Decepticon is still attached to the cable connecting him to the console to organize his comm lines and whispering hurriedly.

"—slag it all, Screamer, answer me for Primus' sake or I swear I'm going to rip your wings off next I see you if you don't give any signal of—"

"Wait, _wait_." He hisses, grabbing the Reflector's arm, and immediately finds himself faced with two pairs of optics covered by a pale red visor. "Viewfinder did you just say—"

"Starscream, yes, that's him, and the slagger isn't answering me and the Air Commander isn't either, even though they're both active, and there's that Black Beast with them and none of them is doing _anything_ and—"

"Give me that." He orders, gesturing to the cable, and, without another word, the Decepticon does so. "Did you give him my message?"

"Yes, and he said he's Steve Reeds from the _Ark_ Protectodome, but I think he was lying because he's _not_, he's Starscream, but then he started saying that his scans weren't working and he was getting a _visual_ and that the Black Beast isn't a Black Beast—"

"Starscream, this is Prowl, can you hear me?" He calls once the connection is reestablished, hope making his spark pulse faster, but gets nothing. "Starscream?"

No answer.

A look at the screen, however, shows the two dots representing Steve Reeds and Air Commander Shiloh Grant in their humanoid modes simply standing close together with a red dot marking a Runner next to them.

But they're not fighting.

That's all the Doorwinger needs to know the radio silence is a good thing, because, together with Viewfinder's words, that means Starscream must be back to himself and has closed all contact with the _Deliberata_ to avoid being overheard by the Quintessons.

The line crackles.

::Viewfinder, are you still there?::

Prowl lets out a relieved laugh at the words, if not the voice, unrecognizable due to the scramblers in place.

"Scared to almost spark failure, but he's still here. What took you so long, Starscream?" He answers, observing the scans in the screens vanish as the Tetrajet cuts the feed back to the mothership.

::Prowl, glad to hear you again! Though I'll like it better when we're back faceplate to faceplate. As to your question, I had to pick Jazz up.::

"Jazz? He's with you? Does he…"

::Remember things? Yes, he does. And we're coming to get you all out and end this thing once and for all, so you better clear a path to allow a Black Beast through.::

And that's when he receives the pulse from Soundwave, and allows a large sharp smirk on his faceplate.

"Consider it done."

"Prowl? What are you—"

"I need your help." He cuts, once more facing his computer and disconnecting from Viewfinder's when he hears the comm end. "There's a timed pulsing of certain electromagnetic waves we need to cancel, most likely hidden behind who knows how many firewalls or even in a different server, and I'll need your hacking expertise."

"You want us to _hack_ the mothership?" Spectro asks, dumbfounded, but he's already facing his screen and getting to work, while his brothers and the Praxian surround him to watch him work or, in the Decepticons' case, to help.

"Do you trust me?"

"You know we do, mech." Viewfinder answers, distracted by some side typing on his own computer that makes Spectro's jump to a more easily cleared point, and Prowl smiles at the unconscious answer.

"Then trust me when I say this will save us all."

"That's a pretty big thing to say." Spyglass whistles, not stopping on whatever he's doing on his own console. "What will it do? Get rid of the Black Beasts?"

"No. It will deal with what is _behind_ them."

All three Decepticons stop to stare at him in bewilderment.

"Er, are you sure you are—"

The alarms start blaring, bright red lights tinting the room with their blinking.

"Quick!" He shouts, turning to the drones that are hurrying out of the bridge.

"But that's the emergency alarm! We're under direct attack! We need to—"

"Finish this, Spectro!" Viewfinder cuts, pushing his brother away to continue their hacking. "I don't know what the Pit is going on but—"

A roar. Loud, menacing, and so well known that Prowl almost smiles out loud.

However, that's when he sees the Quintesson Judge run towards the emergency door, so the Doorwinger snarls instead and, ignoring the Reflector siblings' startled cries, jumps on the table and uses the higher position to leap to the highest tier and cut their captor's escape.

"Fowler, what are you doing? We need to—"

"You're going nowhere, _Quintesson_." He spits, doorwings flared wide and optics crisscrossed by the lines and spots of his targeting systems, and the oval being turns so that its doubt face is the one at the front.

Without losing another nanoklik, Prowl strikes.

He may not have a weapon and he may not be as bulky and heavily armored as other mechs, but that doesn't mean he's defenseless.

He's a Doorwinger, and all Doorwingers have claws.

The Quintesson shrieks when he stabs its yellow face, its tentacles wrapping around his arm but being easily ripped off by his free servo, but the drones are coming back inside—

With the loudest roar yet, a large red and gold pneuma-lion pounces on them and efficiently uses claws and denta to deal with them.

"Holy Primus, what is that—"

"Got it!"

Prowl can feel it the instant the pulsing stops, all his sensors lighting up and registering far more than any other time before, and judging by the startled gasps of the three Decepticons huddled around the computer, they can feel it too.

"Razorclaw! What the Pit is going on here?!" Spyglass screeches, looking around wildly, and the Praxian smiles widely at that.

Not only feel it, then.

The Predacon gives them a soft growl before turning around and roaring, and, a moment later, a squared deep blue vehicle rushes inside and transforms.

Soundwave's red visor immediately meets Prowl's blue optics, and despite the facemask covering his faceplate, the Autobot knows he's smiling.

The Quintesson shrieks again, renewing its efforts to free itself when the Cassette Carrier gets to their side, but to no avail.

When the Communications Officer presses his servos on either side of the death face, visor going black, all struggles cease.

The room fills with tension, if not silence, for there are still roars and shots coming through the door, as all Cybertronian wait for whatever may happen.

And then, the Quintesson falls to the ground lifelessly, and Soundwave almost follows, stumbling back with a pained gasp, but the Reflector Gestalt suddenly at his side catch him while Prowl takes his stained servo out of the body.

"What happened? What did you find?"

"The Judge, Deliberata, he… The Quintessons didn't take any Cybertronians back to their home-world, they're all in the motherships." The Cassette Carrier answers shakily, immediately grabbing the Praxian's arms when he gets close enough.

"Then it looks like today is our lucky day!" A voice calls from the entrance, and, next the knows, there's a slightly smaller black and white frame with sensory horns and a blue visor over a blinding smile hugging Prowl and Soundwave tight enough to dent.

"Jazz!" The Doorwinger exclaims happily, returning the embrace with a pleased purring of his engine, and feeling his spark brighten even more at the rekindling of a bond long blocked and at the saboteur nuzzling back. "Primus, I was so worried about you…"

"_You_ were worried? Those Quinta-creeps made us think they had completely reprogrammed all of you, so don't tell me about worries!" The Head of Special Operations retorts, pushing away and punching him on the arm, but he's still smiling and laughing. "And I had the joy to lose myself back to the Guardians and find myself all over again, so you owe me one."

"Whoa, you were part of the Guardians of Cybertron?" Viewfinder squeaks, stumbling away to hide behind Spectro.

"No wonder you're so scary." Spyglass whispers, shuddering.

And Jazz just smiles again, in the way only the Jazz Prowl has known for vorns can, and the Autobot Second feels like joining—

When Soundwave grabs their arms and _shakes_ them, worry and _terror_ filling their bonds.

"Yes, that may be good news, but it's _not_ our lucky day!" The Communications Officer shouts, facemask retracting as if his too obvious horror wasn't noticeable enough in just his voice, shaking and pale visor.

"Whoa, Sounders, calm down! What is it, another weapon?"

"Yes." The dark blue mech whimpers, and Prowl feels himself start to shake too.

"Do you know what it is?" He asks, softly, gripping Soundwave's arm back.

"Yes."

"Well? Tell us, mech!"

"Unicron."

* * *

Cyclonus lets out a tremulous sigh as he finally allows himself to take a brief rest to absorb everything.

He's in the _Derodomontatus_' bridge, all systems disabled and all drones lying without power on the floors thanks to a simple order.

And with one of the Quintesson Masters, Judge Derodomontatus, tied to his throne and shrieking orders at him.

But he can't obey them. Not anymore.

_They never planned to let us be ourselves. We never were more than _tools_._

It's so easy to see now that he knows what he's looking at, that what he once thought was worry for all their races and the protectiveness of the creator race is actually power lust and greed, that Cyclonus feels almost guilty of not having noticed before.

Almost.

It isn't as if he had any idea what to look _for_, anyway.

It could be the same now, true, but he's been around Cybertronian all his function, short as it is, and this new angle fits so much better than the one they were told about upon activation, that he can't deny it.

So, taking a deep intake to let the cool air lower his too high core temperature, Cyclonus relaxes and reaches for the main console, opening a line to the _Deliberata_.

"Cyclonus here, can anyone hear me?"

For a moment, there's nothing, and the Seeker doesn't know how to take that.

But then, the line crackles.

::Cyclonus, Jazz here. How are things on your end? And what's all that screaming?::

"The Derodomontatus is under control. And that would be Judge Derodomontatus. He doesn't agree with my change of allegiance."

::Oh, you have him functioning! Excellent! Soundwave's coming over to ask him some questions, so keep him under tight watch.::

"Questions? Couldn't he ask them of Judge Deliberata?" The Seeker muses out loud, feeling worried for his former Master despite himself.

::Yeah, he did, but he didn't have the answers. Say, what do you know about Unicron?::

For a moment, Cyclonus doesn't answers, searching through his database extensively to make sure he misses nothing.

And then, feeling useless, he turns back to the connection.

"I have never heard that name before."

Loud cursing answers him.

::Yeah, all the more reason to keep that Egg-frame active. Look, you keep that creep under watch until Soundwave's done with him, Prowler and I will go help Screamer in the _Quintessa_. By the way, I called the Resistance before we set off, so expect a visit from them soon. And don't worry, I told them you're on our—Oh, wait, I didn't tell them.::

"Are you telling me the glit—the rest of Cybertronian are going to board this ship and they don't know I'm no longer an enemy?" The Air Commander growls, and there's nervous chuckling from the other side of the line.

::Hey, easy. Primus, you've spent too much time with Screamer… Anyway, Spectro here is fiddling with the controls, so he'll be sending them a message as soon as he can. Besides, Soundwave'll be there before you know it, and he _does_ know you're on our side.::

"That isn't exactly reassuring." He grumbles, glancing at the door with worry, but hearing nothing from the other side.

::Yeah, well, you can chew me up later. Look, we're out to the _Quintessa_ as soon as Spyglass can work out how the locating system in this thing works, so what should we be expecting? Screamer has support inside, doesn't he?::

"He should, he's met quite a lot of the Cybertronian there. Though how he's going to make his way through the corridors is—" The rest of the sentence is cut by a chocked sound.

Because, even if Starscream can convince the other Taint—_Cybertronian_, there's still one very big, very tough, very _angry_ problem to get past.

::Cyclonus?::

"Jazz, Judge Derodomontatus is strapped to his chair and he's going nowhere, so I'm going to the _Quintessa_."

::What—Why?::

"Galvatron."

* * *

He gets into the ship as easily as usual, only, this time, when he transforms to root mode at the end of the track, the first thing he does is switch his arms for cannons and start shooting.

The drones fall before they can do anything, and loud cursing immediately gives away his next targets.

Hot Rod, Springer and Elita One, all staring at him in surprise and slight fear.

But no recognition.

So, recalling an incident long ago where he used the barest minimum of his null-rays' charge to 'jump-start' a Cybertronian, Starscream adjusts the settings of his weapons and fires again.

The three Autobots skid away at the impacts, yelping at the energy coursing through their frames, and the Seeker immediately brings his attention back to the drones rushing through the corridors.

When he feels the other mechs slowly get up, he snarls at them over a shoulder.

"If you're done playing puppet I could use a couple more guns here!"

The first to react, unsurprisingly, is Elita One, who jumps back to her pedes and joins in his shooting of the drones with the two seemingly small guns attached to her hips.

"I don't know what the Pit just happened, so you better have a slagging good story to tell, Con!" She exclaims, jumping over a bunch of deactivated drones to start laying waste on another group.

"So long as you try not to shoot me before the story is over, deal!" He answers with a smirk, which only widens when Springer transforms to his Rotor alt to provide cover fire without being bothered by the immobile frames littering the ground.

"If he says we were caught and reprogrammed by Quintessons, then I can corroborate that story!" Hot Rod adds as he too joins the battle, using a tiny pile of drones as cover. "That doesn't mean I'm forgiving you for that thing with the data-stick!"

"Oh, come on, I did you a _favor_." The Seeker sneers back, rushing towards one of the corridors where drones are no longer coming through. "Keep them busy, reinforcements are on the way!"

"Where are you _going_?!"

But he doesn't answer, already far enough as he flies through the corridors that he knows he won't be heard anyway.

There's got to be a command center in this ship, with a Quintesson calling the shots, and Starscream knows they have to deal with it as soon as possible before it manages to run away or release something like those behemoth of drones they encountered back on Earth.

Or, Primus forbid, before it sends a message back to the other Quintessons.

That's the last thing they—

Starscream jerks to a stop with a startled cry when the large frame rushes out of a side corridor, and barely avoids being crushed by strong arms when he cuts his engines and drops to the floor to roll under the newcomer.

He's met with Scourge's worried and confused faceplate when he straightens, and knows just what is behind him even before he whirls around.

However, the amount of rage _and_ delight on Galvatron's faceplate is far more than he expected.

"About time you gave me the perfect excuse to get rid of you. And this time, there will be no stopping me."

* * *

**AN:** And another kinda short chapter. Oops :P

I must admit, I was tempted to call this one 'Cliffhanger', but I thought that would be too big a spoiler XD


	54. Drabble: Bonds Across the Ages

"Do you surrender?"

A growl.

"Never."

And he lands the killing strike.

After a moment, Sky Grant throws his hands up with an exaggerated pained shout, and Dean stretches on his seat, lying comfortably against the back with a triumphant and smug smile on his face.

He doesn't even bother bringing the poker chips on the middle of the table closer to him, for the Tetrajet pilot had bet all his remaining ones, so the game is over.

And Dean Twain is the uncontested winner.

Sam, his twin brother, rubs one ear with a scowl as the curly-haired man finally stops his theatrics to slump in his seat.

"You cheated."

"Did not." Dean answers calmly, picking up the cards and chips, but not for a new game.

It's almost time for their scheduled outing, accompanying some kind of new model of Cybertronian, or whatever.

"Hey, Sammy—"

"Don't call me that."

"—what was it that we were supposed to do today?" He asks, not missing a beat, and receives a deadpanned look from his older brother for his troubles.

With a tired sigh, Sam Twain leans back against his own seat, arms crossed against the chest of his glaring bright yellow—golden—suit, one hand combing black locks away from his face.

If it wasn't for their suits, gold-yellow for Sam and red and black for Dean, no one would be able to tell the twins apart.

He knows, because he can barely hold back his laughter every time he remembers that morning he 'borrowed' his brother's suit and had the whole base calling him 'Sam'.

Their fair skin, midnight black hair and gray-green eyes are the very same shade, after all, and the only help those are in distinguishing them is the fact the older brother combs his in the mornings while the younger doesn't bother with it, thus usually having his raven locks spiking a bit.

Like the Devil's horns, Grant is fond of telling him, before the two of them exchange mischievous smiles and get on with the prank of the week.

Nothing too serious, of course, because no one wants Commander Storm angry at them—meaning, they enjoy being alive too much, thank you—but it isn't like dyeing someone's hair—or skin—bright blue ever hurt anyone, right?

"A new model of Tetrajet is going to run the field test, and we're going to be part of the ground forces deployed to keep guard." His twin answers, taking him out of his musings, and, after a moment, he nods.

"I knew it was something like that."

"You're going to babysit the Earl siblings?" Grant asks, finally getting over his monumental loss in their poker game to look at the Twain curiously.

"Wait, the _Earl_ siblings? But isn't Silas Earl afraid of heights?" Sam returns, exchanging a look with his brother.

"Yeah, but it isn't like you can actually tell when you're inside a Tetrajet." The pilot answers with a dismissing shrug. "Why do you think he can still be active if that wasn't so? The guy can't even stand on a chair, for crying out loud!"

"I think we've never been on the field with them before." Dean muses to himself, but his brother immediately shakes his head.

"Not with all of them, but we have. Remember Felicity and Sid?"

"How could I forget? The girl almost crashed because she got 'distracted' chasing after a Runner!" The younger twin answers with a burst of laughter, and Grant immediately snorts.

"Oh, you haven't seen the half of it. She's infinitely worse when she's _outside_ the Tetrajet. If it wasn't for Ritta, her older sister, she would be walking into walls every two steps."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit?" Both brothers ask in unison, and the pilot shakes his head with a wide smirk.

After exchanging a look, the twins shrug and get to their feet.

"So, what kind of new Tetrajet are they giving them?" Dean asks as they calmly get out of the Rec Room.

"I'm not sure, but it's supposed to improve both power and teamwork." The curly-haired man answers with a deep thinking expression.

The brothers scowl in unison, even if they're not looking at the other to know it is so.

"Why didn't they give _us_ that? We're the best when it comes to teamwork!" Dean protests, feeling insulted.

And with good reason.

When it comes to working with another, no one can beat them. In fact, they've managed to earn the title of 'Terror Twins', so efficient are they when fighting together.

"Hey, don't ask _me_. I just heard it is all part of some new project, something called Superior Combining, or something like that, and the orders came from _Engineering_, of all places. I think they did that because they're five siblings, and you're just two." Grant answers, shrugging without a care despite being faced with both twins' scowls.

After another look between them, the brothers calm down with a couple of sighs.

Whatever that 'Superior Combining' thing is, they'll be seeing it for themselves in barely—

"_Fifteen minutes_?!" Dean squeaks, staring bug-eyed at the watch he's just pulled out of a pocket.

Sam lets out a loud curse before the two of them burst out running through the corridors, hoping against all hope that they'll be able to change into their battle suits and be at the docks in time to avoid a reprimand.

And, after the outing is over, Grant will pay for laughing his ass off as the brothers run away.

No one messes with the Terror Twins without paying the price.

* * *

"G'd m'rn'ng…"

About to enter his office after answering absentmindedly with his own 'good morning', August stops, a confused frown on his brow as he processes _what_ he has just heard.

And then, he turns to the table by his side, where his assistant, a young blond boy—Henry Lee, or something—is writing on a datapad.

Only, he isn't 'writing' as much as he's 'doodling', head resting on a hand while the other moves slowly over the screen, until the pen collides with the border, startling the teenager into almost jumping out of his seat.

"Are you alright, Henry?" He asks, confused at the behavior of his usually happy and active and focused assistant, as the boy rests his head on his hand once more.

"Jerry." The youngster returns with an awkward nod. "And I'm fine, S'r… just a bit tir'd…"

"My apologies, Jerry." He answers, stepping closer to the desk to get a clear look at the boy's face, hidden by his bowed head and his messy hair. "Why are you so tired, if I may ask?" He questions, his voice sounding disapproving as he frowns down at the teenager.

He's at that age, after all… But he should know better than to go partying when he knows there'll be work to do in the morning.

"Dunno… J'st woke up tir'd…" The boy answers, letting the pen down to bring his other hand up and rub his eyes. "But I'm fine, I c'n work. R'lly…"

And that's when he looks up to give him a reassuring smile that is all but reassuring.

The boy looks pale, paler than ever before, but his cheeks and nose are red, and there are bags under his puffy eyes.

"Oh, Jerry, what…" August lets out before he can stop himself, leaning over the desk to put a hand on the teenager's brow before taking it off with a hiss. "You're burning up. Why didn't you call in sick?"

"I'm _fine_…" The teenager repeats with a bit more strength, though it sounds more like a whine to the Civilian Commander.

"No, you are most definitely _not_ fine. Let's call your parents, or your guardian, and get you back home. Take as many days as you need to recover. And that's an order." He answers, standing tall and firm when the boy looks ready to protest.

"I don' have paren's. Or guard'n. I'm _eighteen_." He grumbles, leaning against the back of his seat—and turning paler at the movement, a hand covering his face with a groan.

August grimaces before letting out a sigh and approaching the boy.

"Alright. Let me take you to the infirmary." He whispers, kneeling next to his assistant and putting a hand on a forearm to give him a reassuring squeeze.

"But—"

"No 'but's." He cuts almost immediately, and, to his surprise, Jerry snickers, hands still covering his eyes.

"No butts…" He repeats between his soft chuckles, and August has to smile at that, shaking his head.

"Alright, smart guy. I don't know what meds you took before coming here, but no more of those for you." He answers, voice still soft but clearly amused, before picking the teenager up bridal-style, pressing him against his chest and letting him curl closer to him with another groan. "You're not going to be sick, are you?" He asks with slight hesitation, because he _really_ doesn't want _that_ on his suit.

"'M sick alr'dy…"

"I'll take that as a no." August mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes before starting to walk towards the infirmary.

"Nooooo…" Jerry moans pitifully after a couple steps, and the Civilian Commander stops with a confused and worried frown.

"No? No what? Are you alright?"

"Tell th' world to stop movin'…"

"Ah." August answers simply, grimacing. "I'm sorry about that, but I need to take you to the infirmary."

"Noooo…" The boy repeats once more, whining this time, and, deciding to ignore the teenager for his own sake, the Civilian Commander lifts a foot—

And puts it down again without having moved from his spot, looking down at the teenager curled against his chest, hands gripping the flaps of his jacket and face buried in his shirt, because he can feel moisture through the thin elegant fabric.

"Jerry?" He calls softly, lowering his head.

A sob is all that answers him.

Starting to panic, August looks around, as if a miracle would make Shepherd or another of the doctors materialize in the corridor, but nothing happens.

He's alone.

Slowly, careful not to jostle the teenager in his arms, the Civilian Commander backtracks until he can put the boy down in his chair.

Only, his assistant doesn't seem willing to part with him, for he only tightens his grip on August's jacket as soon as he tries to do so.

"Jerry, come on, let go. I'm going to call Doctor Shepherd to give you a check up, and he'll have you feeling better in no time." He pleads softly, hoping his voice doesn't sound as begging to the boy as it does to his own ears.

"Nooooo, Sh'p'rd's scaryyyy…"

August laughs softly at that, before catching himself with a couple coughs.

"Yes, I know. But he's a good doctor too. Come on, don't you want to feel better?"

Silence.

"Yes…" The boy grumbles softly, and, reluctantly, lets go of the Civilian Commander to curl in his chair, his tear-streaked flushed cheeks hidden almost immediately from view behind his pulled up knees.

August can only look at him in worry for a moment before moving to the intercom to call Ryan to his office to take a look at Jerry.

After the doctor gives him a gruff 'five minutes', the man steps away from the table and looks once more at the pitiful ball of yellow and white that is usually his efficient and chirpy assistant.

With a sigh, he carefully sits down at the edge of the chair and puts a hand on Jerry's head, carefully and softly smoothing his hair down into a semblance of his usual self.

After a moment, the boy relaxes and, without previous warning, moves so that he's leaning against August instead of the back of the chair.

The Civilian Commander freezes for a moment, startled at the move, which gives Jerry enough time to curl closer to the man and make himself comfortable.

And, when he returns to his caresses, it is with a small fond smile on his face.

Jerry is asleep by the time Shepherd arrives, breathing a bit labored, but, after a look, Ryan confirms it is nothing more than a bout of flu, so August gets the teenager back into his arms and carefully brings him to the infirmary to leave him in his friend's care.

He isn't yet back at his office and he already misses the boy.

Fifteen minutes of rummaging around stacks of pads, he starts to miss his assistant.

Only after he founds the needed datapad, half an hour after he began the search, does he realize _what_ he had thought.

Thinking back to the teenager now in the infirmary, August smiles.

And to think he didn't even know the boy's name this morning…

* * *

**AN:** And I'm back with this fic too! Albeit with just another 'drabble' set... But worry not! Next chapter is ready for posting, probably on Sunday or Monday ;)

The first drabble is here to show the Terror Twins in the Protectodome, and I managed to sneak a cameo from the Aerialbots (three guesses as to who Felicity, Ritta and Silas Earl are), and, of course, who could I also show in there other than their fellow prankster Skywarp/Sky Grant? ;P The mech wouldn't let me leave him out...

And the second is a cute scene between Optimus/August and Bumblebee/Jerry, as well as the famed "30 minutes to find a file" scene XD

So, that'll be all for now. More in a couple days!

**Giddy:** I'm really happy you liked this tiny thing so much ^^ As for Cyclonus: He wasn't even in the first draft :P And when he finally wormed his way into the story (alongside Scourge and Galvatron), I most certainly didn't expect him to turn into what he is now, nor just how big a part he would end up playing. I was pleasantly surprised that he did, though. The story has benefitted a lot from him.

**Guest:** As I always say, "better late than never". Nevertheless, I'm sorry it took this long...


	55. Stars' Scream

Shoot. Roll. Aim. Shoot. Turn—

And see the whole of his function rewind right before him as a drone aims right at his helm—

Optimus doesn't have the time to reboot his optics before his attacker falls to the ground without having shot its weapon.

When he turns to Megatron, though, he finds the Decepticon leader staring in confusion around him, and a look is all the Autobot needs to know the reason for it.

All the drones are falling down, deactivated, without rhyme or reason.

Ah, no, not all. About two thirds of them.

That's more than enough.

::Optimus, Blaster here. Spectro contacted to say they found the off switch for the drones. Has it worked?::

::Indeed it has. Though not all are down.:: The blue and red mech answers, smiling under his no longer familiar battle mask, as he helps gun down the remaining active enemies.

::Yeah, he said each mothership has its own set of drones. They captured one, an ally—and, you won't believe this, it's _Cyclonus_—went to another, and Starscream got the third. Looks like one is still—::

"Wait, Starscream and Cyclonus aren't the same mech?" He cuts, lifting his riffle so as to not accidentally shoot anyone, and attracting Megatron's attention.

::No, Cyclonus is Quintesson-created. And so are Galvatron and another. Apparently, they used some of our mechs as models, which is why Jazz confused Cyclonus with Starscream.:: Blaster explains, and the relief in his voice is as easily heard as it is seen in the Decepticon's faceplate when he relies that information. ::Oh, and they found the missing mechs, the ones that were still missing, that is. Turns out, none were taken to the Quintesson home world. And Prowl says if you don't send someone to retrieve Hound _right now_, he's going to rip your plating off piece by piece with his own claws.::

Optimus shudders at that, his armor pressing closer to the struts in a defensive reaction, while Megatron stares in curiosity.

Until he realizes just _what_ he heard.

"Did you say Hound? Are you sure you don't mean Huffer?"

Blaster laughs.

::That's exactly what I asked! But, no, they do mean Hound. Apparently, they had him 'posing' as a scientist while he was actually being used as a sample for them to study his scanning suit. He's having a 'hissy fit', according to Jazz.:: The Cassette Carrier answers, snickering softly, and Optimus shakes his helm with a smile, relaxing.

"Alright, send someone to retrieve them. Do we have the coordinates of the motherships?"

::Just got them. I'm going to—Aw, _slag_!::

And all laughter and calm and the growing hope that it was over vanish faster than the Autobot leader's smile.

"Blaster?"

::Sir, I'm sending Astrotrain to your position. I need you and Megatron to get onboard, he'll have the coordinates of your objective. Apparently, Starscream decided to storm the most heavily guarded mothership _alone_.::

After thanking the Communications Officer and putting the comm in standby, Optimus fills Megatron in while they wait for the Triple Changer.

The gunmetal gray mech only sighs in resignation.

"I swear, if he doesn't get deactivated this time, _I_'m going to shoot him through the spark chamber."

The reproaching look the blue and red mech gives his companion is as useless as a mosquito against a Cybertronian.

Not that he was expecting it to be different.

The ride is quick once they finally get into Astrotrain and, to their initial surprise and growing suspicion, uneventful.

Until a hole is blown into the bay of the mothership to allow the Triple Changer and his passengers access to the vessel.

"Well, well, well. Took you long enough, handsome. The party is over." A matte black and slightly changed Elita One salutes, a gun resting on a shoulder plate and a cocky smile on her faceplate as soon as they get in the Shuttle bay, feeling all her sensors roam over Optimus' frame.

A wave of drones burst through a door before he can reboot his processor to think an answer, and shooting begins again, having the effect of forcing all Cybertronian together behind a wall of deactivated parts.

"_Almost_ over. Hey there, Megs. How are you doing?" She adds, giving a spare gun to an almost completely immobile Springer, who is straining to turn around, while Hot Rod reinforces their refuge.

"It seems my luck decreases by the nanoklik." Megatron answers with a snarl, fusion cannon singing as he discharges shot after shot on the drones. "First my Second tries to get himself deactivated _again_ and now I have to deal with you _again_."

"Life's a funny thing, isn't it?" The formerly red mech, now as black as all the other Military Cybertronian, snickers, though he quickly turns away at the warlord's glare. "Commander went that way, though he didn't exactly explain. What the Pit is—?"

With a roar, a really distinctive Tetrajet blazes through the hole the Triple Changer opened in the hull, maneuvering efficiently in the close space while transforming _and_ shooting drones down.

When Cyclonus' pedes touch the ground, none of the latest wave of attackers still function.

"I guess that confirms you are truly on our side." Megatron lets out, standing up from behind their cover without a worry, and the horned Seeker just turns around and nods.

"How about we discuss the specifics later? We need to find Ree—_Starscream_ before Galvatron turns him into a fusion blast scorch mark against a wall. _And_ we need to stop Judge Kledji from sending word back to Quintessa or putting some emergency plan in action." The Quintesson-created mech answers, formal and proper, but obviously nervous, to the point he's fidgeting slightly, though not clearly visible if it wasn't because of the careful look the red and blue mech is keeping on him.

"Optimus, take our mechs and evacuate the ship, and call the others and have them emptied too." The Decepticon leader orders, and, for a moment, the Prime almost wants to disobey.

But, it's the right choice, and an obvious one at that, because who knows just _what_ their once-Masters could be planning now?

So, no, better the motherships be empty, even if nothing happens and they have to come back at a later time to find some use for them once this is over, rather than have their mechs disappear.

_Again_.

But, before that…

"Elita, could you—?"

"Leave it in my servos." The Femme answers before he can finish, giving him a smile before she turns to order an annoyed Astrotrain around, easily taking care of the evacuation.

"Megatron, I—"

"No, you're not coming with me. No, you can't help, you'll be more useful out there, taking care of everyone. They will need a leader should we fail. And I am a far better fighter than you could ever be." The Tread Roller cuts, listing the answers to the unvoiced questions with an almost emotionless and automatic tone, and Optimus finds himself surprised despite everything else.

And insulted.

"I am _at least_ as good a fighter as you are." He protests, arms crossed against his chest plates, and Megatron snorts.

"I have thicker plating."

Silence.

"Point." He concedes with a nod, slipping away his battle mask to give his friend a smile. "Need I wish you luck?"

"Keep it for yourself. You'll need it more than we will." The Decepticon leader answers cockily, and, with a nod, they part ways.

Optimus can only hope he's right.

* * *

It is extremely uncomfortable and almost impossibly awkward to be running through the _Quintessa_'s corridors, though not so much for the running than due to _who_ is running with him.

He expected Megatron to be more imposing than Galvatron, being the mech the latter was modeled after, and thus older and more experienced, but…

Megatron is _far more_ than imposing.

He can finally see why Starscream respects him so much, even if he's been in his presence for barely more than five minutes, and only one of those was spent listening to him, albeit he was just ordering the other Cybertronian around.

Which says _a lot_ about the mech.

However, he can't let his doubts and discomfort at the Tread Roller's presence get to him, for he doesn't need only his companion's presence, but also his fighting ability.

… Not that he has any doubts about it, especially after seeing him move.

He may not know as much as any other Cybertronian due to him being younger and far less experienced, but he knows enough to recognize an expert fighter just by seeing the way they stand, walk and run.

Plus, he carries a _really large_ fusion cannon _attached to his arm_.

_And I thought _Galvatron's_ was big…_

They round a corner and all of Cyclonus' thoughts stop.

There are frames on the floor, known frames, frames of those he cares for, and another hovering over them—

"Cyclonus! You're finally—Who in the name of the Masters is _that_?!" Scourge squeaks, jerking back as soon as Megatron rounds the corner, while both Starscream and Galvatron turn to the newcomers from what he now recognizes as calmly sitting positions against the walls, one in front of the other.

"That, my badly misinformed Shuttle, is my leader." The other Seeker purrs, standing up and stretching, all the while ignoring the purple Tread Roller's glare.

"Will you release me from this binding spell _now_?" The larger mech snarls, and, stunned as he is, the horned Cybertronian jumps at the snort of laughter at his back, having all but forgotten about his companion.

Megatron gives him the briefest glance, thoroughly amused, before calmly walking by the embarrassed Seeker's side towards his Second in Command.

"Null-ray?" As answer, Starscream simply lifts a slightly dented and scratched servo to show the tendrils of electricity coursing between his clawed dactyls. "You devious mech… About time I remembered why I kept you so close." The Flier chuckles, waving his servo in an exaggerated flourish before bending at the waist. "Oh, quit your dramatics, Starscream. We still have work to do. Before that, though…"

And, just when Cyclonus was calming down, Megatron aims his right arm at the still immobile Galvatron—and his fusion cannon lights up with an almost inaudible but clearly felt hum.

"No!"

A loud clanging fills the corridor.

Silence.

"Really? You resort to _slapping_ now?"

"You didn't deserve more."

Cyclonus reboots his optics, and so do Scourge and Galvatron, but the scene is still the same.

Until Starscream tilts his helm up, as if daring his leader to repay the slap to the shoulder plate he received from the Seeker, his fusion cannon once more inactive and a deadpan on his faceplate.

However, Megatron just makes a swapping gesture towards the Flier's helm that ends with a stumbled step back to evade the hit and a squeak.

"Should I assume you already 'convinced' our friends to see things our way?"

"They convinced themselves. I just had to tell them you would be more than willing to spar with them and let them blow up all the drones they wished if they obeyed a set of far less restrictive rules than those imposed by the Quintessons." Starscream answers, crossing his arms against his chest plates and turning to grumble something under his breath that Cyclonus chooses not listen to.

"Well, not exactly, and he told us about what the Mast—the Quintessons are really planning, too…" Scourge adds timidly, shrinking into himself when Megatron turns to him. "And I didn't really agree but I don't want to follow some slavers and I guess I could follow you and—"

"Scourge." Cyclonus cuts, trying to keep his exasperation at bay and knowing his friend will berate himself later if he lets him continue his embarrassing stuttering. "We can talk about that after we deal with this."

"Sure." The Shuttle squeaks, smiling sheepishly.

"Right." Megatron deadpans, before turning serious and pointing from the mobile mech to the one on the floor. "You, take this incompetent to the bay to evacuate the ship. Cyclonus, take us to—"

"This _what_?!" Galvatron roars, and the Seeker almost jumps away to avoid the Tread Roller's ire, only deterred by the fact his Wing leader can't move an inch.

"Incompetent. Seeker or not, you should have known better than to engage Starscream in close quarters." The gunmetal gray mech deadpans, his gaze so cold that it's almost depreciating.

"Don't be too harsh on him, Megatron. He thought he was dealing with Steve Reeds." The black Cybertronian answers, though he's preening visibly at his leader's words.

"My opinion stands. Cyclonus, the bridge, _now_. And you… Be ready for some _intensive_ lessons in fighting once this is over."

Whatever protest Galvatron was about to throw back dies at those words, his whole visage lighting up in eagerness.

So, leaving Scourge to awkwardly maneuver their Wing leader off the floor, Cyclonus resumes their run to the 'civilian' part of the mothership and, after blowing a hole in the door separating the two areas, towards the bridge, with Starscream and Megatron updating each other about recent events as they calmly deal with any and all resistance they encounter.

It's really humbling for the Quintesson-created mech to see such a thing, because he knows he's not experienced or good enough to be able to shoot or rip a mech—drone, actually—apart while holding such a mundane conversation without one of the two being affected by the other.

That may have something to do with the teamwork exhibited by the older mechs, though.

A well-oiled machine would pale against their flawless battle dance, if it was able to do such a thing.

Cyclonus only hopes he and his Wing will, one day, be capable of such feats in the defense of their own world.

_Huh, that sounded weird. Not wrong, but… weird._

So, shaking the thought out of his processor, he turns into the corridor that will guide them to their destination, and engages the first of a wave of drones pouring out of the control room.

And, as soon as they are done with the puny resistance and rush through the open door of the bridge, they get tackled by giant guardian drones, and a lot of cursing and fighting back ensues.

On Starscream and Megatron's side, that is, because the horned mech is helped back to his pedes by the very robot that assaulted him as soon as he crashes to the floor.

_What the—_

"Ah, my loyal Cyclonus. Excellent work bringing those dissenters here. Rest assured, your part in the execution of this trap will be rewarded." A voice as sticky and poisonous as stale Energon purrs from the throne, and Cyclonus slowly turns to its origin.

Judge Kledji is the biggest and by far more threatening of the Quintesson Judges the Seeker has ever met, and is thus the legitimate leader of the forces sent to both Earth and Cybertron.

And, right now, his Death face is staring right at the horned mech.

A dark green and pale gray face with incredibly bright poisonous green optics.

Cyclonus immediately looks down to his pedes, knee joints shaking at the proximity and the simple _presence_ of the Judge, to the point he lowers himself into a one knee reverence to avoid falling on his faceplate instead.

"I function to serve, my Master and Lord." The words come out of his voice box without previous order, but he's too horrified and shaken to even think about why they feel wrong.

An indignant shriek almost makes him jump back to his pedes, immediately turning to the sound—

Starscream's faceplate is slammed to the ground hard enough to dent, effectively muting him, while Megatron can only grunt as four of the matte black behemoths keep him immobilized, though not without trouble.

And Cyclonus remembers what he can't believe he forgot, the reason for their being here, the manner in which they broke inside, the decision not to be a slave ever again.

Just one quick glance from the other Seeker, however, tells him all he needs to know.

The lack of hate, betrayal, rage or any other similar emotion can only mean one thing.

_Play along._

Cyclonus turns his attention back to where the Quintesson is sitting comfortably on his throne, though keeping his optics to the floor.

_Gladly._

"Master Kledji, if I may, I fear the glitched managed to hack into our databases. They were talking about something named 'Unicron'…" He starts, leaving the question unvoiced and the sentence open, so the Judge can take it as he wishes.

"Hah! As if the Unmaker was anything more than tales and old stories!" Starscream shrieks, twisting in the grip of the drones, though they don't even twitch despite his best efforts.

"If there is no Primus, there is no Unicron." Megatron corroborates with a threatening snarl, managing to move so that only half his faceplate is facing the Quintesson, but half is more than enough to convey the promise of a painful deactivation.

Cyclonus hides his shiver by turning his gaze back to the ground.

_I really hope I am never on his bad side. Again._

Judge Kledji laughs, and this time the horned mech shudders badly enough that all his armor clangs.

Fortunately, no one notices, or cares to look his way, so he carefully lifts his helm enough to see the laughter face turned their way.

Even if this specific Judge's looks more like a Sharkticon's widest grin.

"You assume, Slave, and, as always, you assume _wrong_. We _are_ your Masters and creators, but that doesn't mean there isn't truth in your pathetic beliefs." And, while that means nothing to Cyclonus, the way the other two tense, along the horror slowly appearing on their faceplates, makes him put his guard up. "The being you know as Unicron is as real as yourselves."

"Impossible…" Megatron whispers, before rage distorts his expression into something far darker than anything the horned mech has ever seen. "_Impossible_!" He roars, and the Seeker flinches back hard enough that he falls on his side, quickly scrambling away, while a couple more of the giant drones rush to immobilize the thrashing mech.

"And what, exactly, do you think created the factory you call home?" Judge Kledji answers calmly once the Tread Roller is restrained once more. "The Primus is the largest and most perfect factory-planet creator machine ever built, superior to anything you've ever seen or could bear witness to. But that isn't the whole of its perfection. Because, as every other thing in this universe, it has a complementary yet opposite half. Integrated in its very being, the second part of its function, is a world destroyer, a planet eater that will turn all it takes into itself to fuel and materials for the Primus half to use. The 'Unmaker', as you so aptly put it." The Quintesson explains, body tilting so that shadows accentuate the menacing grin of the laughter face.

Such a display isn't needed. The Cybertronian are more than horrified enough with just his words.

And, despite his bowed helm hiding his emotions from the others, Cyclonus feels the very same.

He may not have knowledge of any myth or story all the others created before him are aware of, but…

A planet creator.

A planet eater.

Both being one and the same.

The biggest threat in the known universe, and even further away.

And, right now, it's pointed at them.

'Horror' and 'despair' are too light emotions to encompass all that he's feeling.

He can't even begin to imagine _what_ the other two are going through.

If that thing is set free on them—

_Wait. Wait… _Has_ it been ordered to? Is it approaching yet, or is it just empty words?_

"Master Kledji, perhaps you should send word to Quintessa about the revolt, so that this Unicron being can be deployed."

There's the soft whoosh of a face being replaced by another, and, steeling himself, the Seeker looks up.

The Death face is staring at him again.

He tells himself is out of fake respect that he looks down, but the fear bubbling under his armor is too hot and pressing to ignore or hide.

"The communication suites have been disabled. We must reach the escape transport and contact Quintessa as soon as we leave orbit."

And that would have made Cyclonus soar in relief if he hadn't been paralyzed by images of what would happen if he was found out.

"I will do all that is in my power to ensure your safe arrival to your transport."

_Not._

The faces whir once more, this time to the laughter face again, and the Seeker shivers.

"That won't be necessary."

"What?" Cyclonus exclaims, voice even more high-pitched than Starscream's, as the Quintesson moves closer to them.

"This one is Galvatron's base model, isn't it?" Judge Kledji asks instead of explaining, a tentacle grabbing Megatron's chin to lift his faceplate so that their optics and eyes meet. "Yes, an excellent model… And Galvatron has indeed proven useful. More like it are sure to come."

"But…" Cyclonus stutters, processor working overtime to find some excuse over the scare of thinking the Quintesson was going to scrap him, some way to get out of this mess—

"Indeed, my good servant. As useful as this one will be, he is no use to us now. However, _that_ one…" The Quintesson answers, releasing Megatron and turning to Starscream. "It has been a long time, but I could have recognized that code anywhere." He adds, almost a whisper, as his Death face is moved to the front, another tentacle pulling a small control out and pressing a button—

With a silent shriek, the Seeker convulses in the drones' grip—

And his grayed out frame falls strut-less to the ground.

Megatron's roar, optics white in rage, easily hides Cyclonus' cry of grief, but does nothing to mute the wrenching pain in his spark.

Because he may be young, but the horned Seeker isn't innocent.

He may not have seen it before, but he can recognize the extinction of a spark.

The end of a life.

Kledji's triumphant laughter soon enough manages to be audible over the Tread Roller's threats and efforts to get free, and, for the first time since they entered the room, Cyclonus doesn't feel fear or horror at the thought of his not-Master, but a hate so intense that it makes his engines growl and wings spread from their folded position, optics bright and faceplate twisted in a spark-extinguishing snarl.

And that's when all Pit breaks loose.

With an audial-splitting shriek, Starscream's wings explode, tendrils crackling with white lightning wrapping around the drones keeping the frame down, the matte black beings jerking violently as the gray Seeker moves again, slowly sitting up…

And throwing the helm back with a metallic shriek, more tendrils ripping the throat and lower faceplate apart, yet more charge making them whip around like probing tentacles, the optic lenses cracking and melting from the intense heat making the optics glow white, the abdominal and chest plating falling down with tiny _pops_ of over-heated Energon, the inner parts thrown away as if useless while a deep blue spark, so dark it seems almost black in its center, pulses in the ripped open spark chamber, filaments of blue and white growing out of it to scorch the metal surrounding it, reaching, probing—

And Cyclonus finally realizes the tendrils are actually wires, and those dangling are tubes, dripping Energon to cover the dead nanites in the essential life fluids that should never be outside a frame.

Outside an _active_ frame.

Because that thing may have a spark—or a semblance of one, because nowhere in the Seeker's databases tells of anything like what he's seeing now—but it is most definitely _not_ alive.

The drones fall down, gray in their deactivation, while the sensor nets from the wings jerk into the air behind the undead Cybertronian, like the skeletal servos of the deactivated reaching for a sliver of life to drain, lenses-less optics turning to the active mechs to reveal the molten glass-metal rivulets streaming down what remains of the faceplate like tears.

Judge Kledji chuckles, triumphant, as the thing that was once Starscream stands up from between the mangled armor that used to be part of it, a deadly beast leaving behind the shambles of the cocoon where it staid dormant for years.

"Rise, my Reaper! Rise once more to occupy your legitimate place under my command!"

And rise the thing does—before immediately throwing itself on Cyclonus.

The Seeker jerks away with a terrified shout as the giant drones intercept the being, Judge Kledji likewise moving back with a startled scream, but it is for naught as the tendrils wrap around the drones to completely drain what semblance of life they have.

"What—Why doesn't it obey me? Why is it—What did you _do_?! You bunch of glitches, you replaced that interfering code!" The Quintesson shrieks, jerkily trying to recover his balance, thrown askew by his brusque movement back, as he glares at the Cybertronian with his last sentence.

With the nightmarish sound of metal being ripped apart, the drones fall to the ground in pieces as the deactivated frame throws itself once more onto Cyclonus.

And, this time, there's nothing to stop it as it digs gray claws into his torso seams, wires blazing with electricity burning through his very plating while the whipping filaments of the spark lap at him, numbing him and forcing him into the darkness—

The weight is ripped off him, the pain diminishing instantly and awareness coming back, as a shadow covers him, and the horned Seeker sees living gray plating covering a lifted right arm, hears the terrified shrieks of Judge Kledji as the _thing_ crashes into him—

And Megatron's glowing fusion cannon goes off, and everything vanishes for an instant.

When Cyclonus' sensors reboot, only burnt tentacles and a grayed out tri-dactyl pede remain of their enemies, lying on the scorched ground of the bridge, with a large hole on the side of the room, going so far that stars can be seen on the other side.

A servo wraps around his arm and, carefully but somewhat brusquely, Cyclonus is pulled to his pedes, his weight being hold until he can manage to make his shaking frame cooperate enough to keep him standing.

"Are you alright?" Megatron asks, voice powerful but soft, and, still trembling harshly, the Seeker looks up.

"W-Wha-at—"

"That was a Spark Eater. The name says more than enough." Cyclonus shudders once more, arms hugging his torso, and only the Tread Roller's servo around his arm keeps him standing. "I need you to contact the other motherships, see if you can send a message to the rest of Quintessons, tell them their conqueror's enterprise is doomed to failure. Can you do that?"

After a moment, the horned mech nods.

He doesn't hear the words; doesn't remember when Megatron discards his burnt out fusion cannon, the same scorched whip-like marks on it as on his plating; when whoever is on the _Deliberata_ allows them to contact Quintessa; what he exactly tells the Quintessons that answer the call, other than something about the glitched turning even a Reaper against them and that it will be suicidal to keep trying to recover what is lost.

And he doesn't know what the message on the screen means, appearing after the line with their former Master's home planet is closed, still too shocked to decipher the written words, but the gray mech does, because he curses out loud and rushes out of the brig with Cyclonus in his arms, through the hole his shot opened to the outside of the hull—

The world explodes, and darkness swallows them.

* * *

**AN:** So much to say about this chapter... So, let's start small and go from there: Judge Kledji is the Quintesson 'King', or something, in the original Marvel comics (I think), so I thought it fitting he was the leader in here.

Second: _Finally_, here you have the explanation to that 'High Grade imbalance' thingy all the way back in Part II. As you see, it didn't turn out as anyone could have hoped, not even the Quintessons. In short, there's some coding of the 'Reaper' function that is incompatible with the energy regulation code of the spark, so, for the Reaper to 'work' as it should, the other code can't be present, as the spark is altered and the energy needs are such that the Reaper resorts to devouring sparks to try to balance it as it follows the energy regulation coding's orders. So, in restoring the missing code, they broke any control the Quintessons could have over the Reaper, who would then become a mindless spark-eating... well, _Spark Eater_. I hope that clears things a bit.

Third: If I get my way, next chapter will be the last one, with maybe an epilogue left, depending on how the chapter turns out. Wait and see, I guess.

And that will be all for now. More later!

**Kinetic Vo:** My apologies for the long wait, but rest assured, it won't happen again. I'm glad to read you enjoyed last chapter so much! It's really hard to show all I want to when there are so many scenes and characters, so I'm happy to see those drabbles are welcome. Thanks a lot for the review (and fear not, I _am_ finishing this fic ^^)!

**Giddy:** You don't know how happy your review made me :D Thanks to you, _I_ needed that too ^^ (And the review to _Shades of White_ was pure gold too! XD).


	56. Coming Home

Earth is peaceful after the Quintessons are defeated, and, despite all the changes, it remains the same.

In regards to that, it is both a blessing and a curse.

It taunts those who remain with familiar landscapes and environments, only to metaphorically slap them in the face with the broken cities littering the surface and the ruins of not so long ago majestic feats of architecture, and, of course, with all the missing people.

Despite the Quintessons' targets being the Cybertronian, humanity hasn't been left unscathed by almost two centuries of war.

So, while some mechs go to Cybertron, others remain behind, whether to aid the Earthlings or avoid their once Masters.

Some stay for _both_ reasons, and more.

Like Skyfire.

He never was a belligerant mech, and, regardless of how much he wants their missing friends back, he knows he'll be more useful on Earth than in the middle of a battlefield, Shuttle frame type or not.

That doesn't mean he won't answer a direct order.

Or a request for help.

Thus, Skyfire finds himself back on Cybertron's orbit, cargo full of recovered Autobots and Decepticons, as the last battle against their slavers is waged all around them.

Or so they say.

As soon as the motherships explode, though, he knows they were telling the truth.

Following Blaster's indications, he lands in one of Darkmount's plazas, where a medical team immediately whisks his passengers away, only words of joy and happiness and victory spoken between them, but, before the Shuttle can follow, Blast Off, with Astrotrain close after him, land and let their respective occupants out too.

And what Skyfire sees wipes his smile and any and all sensation of triumph off.

Most mechs are not too badly damaged, if at all, but they look like they lost the conflict instead of winning.

Ironhide and Shockwave rush out of the tower while the Shuttle makes those observations, immediately going up to a worried Optimus.

"Is Megatron here? Has anyone heard from him?"

Looks are exchanged but no one answers, and the Prime's optics turn to the sky, where the blazing remnants of the motherships are being swallowed by the darkness of space as debris rains down on their planet like tiny unsuspecting shooting stars, bathing Cybertron in kind-of natural fireworks to celebrate their own Independence Day.

And it dawns then, that maybe not all of them are the husks of the large spaceships, but that, perhaps, they're all that remains of some of their own numbers.

Before the horror can take hold, though, a shadow disturbs the luminiscent spectacle, soon after revealing itself as some kind of ovoid shuttle.

Quintesson.

"Wait!" Jazz exclaims, moving closer to their leaders alongside an Energon-stained but undamaged Prowl and a maskless Soundwave.

The Shuttle lands not too far from them and, when the cargo bay's door opens, their lack of aggression is rewarded as Megatron steps out with a similar mech following awkwardly, as if not in full control of his limbs, and a strange Flier in the Decepticon's arms, their transport turning into root mode to help support the purple Tread Roller as soon as they're out.

All mechs visibly and audibly relax and cheer up at the sight, even if there are whip-like burn marks of unidentified origin all over the gray Cybertronian and his charge.

"I can't believe it." The Cassette Carrier scoffs, both the Autobot Second and Third mirroring his expression. "He got himself captured _again_, didn't he?"

"I _knew_ we couldn't leave him without a babysitter!" Jazz bemoans, and Prowl's huff sounds almost agreeing as he crosses his arms under his bumper.

And that's when Skyfire realizes _who_ they are talking about, and can't help his own grimace.

He should have probably expected it. His friend always had the worst luck. And no self-preservation whatsoever most often than not, though it looked like his time with the Decepticons had improved that last issue, at least.

Megatron carefully lays the Flier on the gourney Ratchet rolls up to him, but doesn't let the Medic take him away.

And then, he looks up.

For the first time since the Shuttle met the Decepticon leader, all those years ago in the Artic, Skyfire finds himself afraid of the gray mech.

Of his empty yet full gaze, too many emotions in him to settle on one, yet so beyond them that he is emotionless while not being really so.

"He wasn't."

All sound, all movement, all life, seems to come to a halt.

And Megatron opens his mouth again.

"I destroyed Starscream myself."

For a moment, the incredulity and disbelief are too much for anyone to be able to process what _that_ means.

Until Optimus takes a small step towards the Tread Roller before almost immediately taking it back.

"But—I thought you were joking! That you weren't serious when you said you'd extinguish Starscream yourself if the Quintessons didn't do it first!"

A well known clicking sound that makes Skyfire unsheath his own claws forces the Shuttle's attention to where the Praxian is crouching threateningly, ready to attack the Decepticon leader alongside a terrifyingly serious Jazz-the _old_ Jazz, Cybertronian Jazz, and, for a moment, the largest mech almost wishes he wasn't yet back-, both of them held back by a single raised servo from the dark blue Cassette Carrier next to them, visor pale and frame quivering.

Megatron meets first Optimus' gaze before turning to the other three, his emotion-filled emotionlessness still present.

"I destroyed a frame and spark, yes, but there was nothing of Starscream left in them."

Silence dawns again, but, before the words manage to make sense, the Autobot saboteur recoils with a sharp gasp and a terrified shudder of his whole frame.

"Jazz?" Prowl calls with worry, Energon-stained claws still bared but the mech no longer deep in an irrational rage.

"I've seen those marks before..."

"Wha—"

"Spark Eater."

Megatron's optics go black as he bows his helm, and that's more than anyone wanted or needed to know.

Skyfire's legs fail him, and he's suddenly kneeling on the rust dust and debris of the plaza, but everyone is too busy freaking out to pay him attention.

That's fine.

He wouldn't be able to focus on them anyway.

Because it isn't that Starscream is deactivated, that he won't be able to see and talk to his friend ever again.

It's that those monsters that dare claim ownership of their species dared to turn him into a demon straight from the darkest tales, condemning his spark to vanish in the coldness of space, never to rest in Primus' warmth again.

"The Quintesson called it a Reaper, and implied that he ought to have had some sort of control over it if not for some kind of coding interfering." Megatron explains, his voice lowering into a tremulous growl as a snarl slowly distorts his faceplate and his shaking servos curl into threatening fists. "It _deactivated_ my Second with the press of a button and dared use his frame to call forth that _monster_—"

"That's what they found." Soundwave whispers, attracting all attention without clearly meaning to, lost as he is in his memories. "When they caught us, when they _tortured_ us, _that_ is what they found, why they messed with his spark... If the Quintessons created those Reapers and some remnants of that coding had managed to be passed from one mech to another, dormant until certain conditions activated them..."

"That would explain Spark Eaters popping out of nowhere." Jazz not-quite-whimpers, still visibly unsettled as he wrestles his own demons back into whatever partition of his processor they crawled out of.

Shockwave and Ratchet both shudder visibly, before they return their attention to the stasis-locked Flier, looking over the whip-like burns with different optics as the Medic jacks into his systems and, as soon as the chest plates part, connects a specialized cable to the ports of the spark chamber to make sure things are as they should be.

"What about Unicron?" Prowl, ever practical, asks after a moment, when everyone has calmed down enough that they will all be able to process the words.

Fortunately, despite the jolt of dread and fear that name ellicits in them, Megatron is actually expressing emotion this time, scowling angrily but with his fists relaxing their grip minutely, which helps keep them from freaking out that much at the new issue being brought up.

"Unicron _and_ Primus are two halves of a planet recycling and creating machine."

Until that, of course.

A glare from the Decepticon leader silences their cries and disbelief soon enough, though.

"You can all thank Cyclonus here that they didn't get to unleash the Unmaker." Megatron snorts humorlessly at the title, but the rest flinch at the sound. "Apparently, knowing _we_ could turn a Reaper against them was enough to put that cowardly scum back where it belongs, away from Cybertron. Even if we didn't do much 'turning', all things said."

"So, did we win?" The purple Tread Roller asks, scowling and trying to stand straighter as he seems to recover from his temporary clumsiness.

Paralysis.

Null-ray.

Before he knows it, Skyfire is standing again, straightening to his full height, and staring down at the two suddenly nervous unknown mechs. Not that they display their uneasiness that visibly, but, well, it's clear enough.

"There are no winners in war." The white Shuttle answers before, without another word, turning back towards Darkmount-and stopping before entering the fortress. "Lord Megatron?"

He doesn't look back, but he can still feel the surprised looks and confusion from the rest of mechs in the plaza fixed on his wings and back.

Minus one.

"Don't, Shuttle."

And so Skyfire simply walks away.

* * *

Jazz knows better than many-not to say all-how hard it is to make peace with oneself after certain events.

Past actions. New discoveries.

Having their whole world and existence turned upside down in a relatively brief period of time, war and deception and processor-games notwithstanding.

But, amidst all the changes, there are some things that stay the same.

Autobots or Decepticons, reprogrammed or rebels, fighters or supporters. It doesn't matter. They're all Cybertronian.

Cybertronian adapt.

And in adaptation, they _thrive_.

The Civil War ends. Earth is set on the path to recovery. Cybertron is being rebuilt.

The neutrals returning to their home planet after vorns of unending conflict is more trouble than it's worth, especially when they are informed about all the new discoveries about their race's origin and the _true_ way of things, and, for a very tense while, yet another war seems inevitable.

Fortunately, the united Autobot-Decepticon front is enough to dissuade any building hostilities, and, for those that are unable to accept their new reality, workplaces on Earth are offered until the time they feel ready to return, or, if they never do, until colonies can be established.

Or, in third instance, as Megatron kindly put it, they're welcome to turn around and get lost once more.

They don't take well to that, but no one has dared argue yet when faced with the Decepticon leader's snarl and Prime's judging stare.

Really scary combination, that one is.

Why, it almost leaves Jazz jobless.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, it all depends on who you ask-, there will always be idiots, so the saboteur isn't truly without his share to take care of—not permanently, Ops doesn't approve of deactivating the dissenters, but his spying and unearthing of complots is more than entertaining enough for now.

It's not the best way to rule Cybertron, not by far, but, until a time when the situation, and their planet, is more stable, martial law will have to do.

It's fine. They're Cybertronian. Cybertronian adapt. Cybertronian thrive un adaptation. Even if they have a bit of trouble processing the fact they were created to be consumer goods, slaves, and all that comes with it.

Sooner or later, the neutrals will understand that, or adapt to a life away from Cybertron. After all, they've done it before.

And yes, Jazz knows that those are _bad_ thoughts, that he can't really resent them from wanting to stay away from death and fighting and pain, especially after their disagreements escalated into all out war when they could have been easily solved, but it just ticks him in a really bad way that all these people turned their backs on them and chose the easy route they had always chosen with the Senate, to sit back and let others do the tough work and decide their fates, and now they have _the gall_ to show up and demand everything be fixed and perfect and just like they want it when they _didn't do a thing_.

It is completely unfair of him to think of the neutrals that way, as most had been refugees fighting to find somewhere to belong, to be safe, but the saboteur can't help himself.

Life's not fair. Never was, never is, and never will be.

And if they can't deal with it, they will be better off not dealing with anything else ever again.

Besides, if they had been so content with their new lives, why throw them away to come to Cybertron when they _knew_ there was no way the planet was _alright_ after the long war?

No, that's not something he can judge either, because he _knows_ why they did it, why _he_ would drop everything too in an instant if he was in the same situation.

Cybertron is home. He can't fault _anyone_ for wanting to come home.

What he _can_ complain about until he gets blue in the face—and, since he's not organic, that will never happen, meaning he can keep grumbling about it until the end of time—is that they do come back expecting a perfect world adapting to their every snotty needs _without_ wanting to even fickle a dactyl to at least _help_ make Cybertron better.

Not all neutrals are like that, of course, but when all Jazz gets to deal with are the rust-processored insufferable idiots, he may be a bit biased.

Or at lot, seeing how Prowl takes care of the polite helpful ones and the not-so-lost cases.

Jazz? He gets to _convince_ the worst of the worst.

He would like his job better if Optimus allowed him to make an example of a couple of the most notorious scrap-heaps—who, _hello_, are former minor Nobles and Senators, former bosses of the Guardians _and_ Jazz, and _oh_, doesn't he have _plans—because_ that would mean the rest would be a lot more cooperative if they saw the results of _not_ wanting to play in a team.

Well, between his and Megatron's nagging, and Prowl's subtle nudging, Prime will acquiesce sooner or later.

Preferably sooner.

"What are you thinking about?"

His too sharp smirk doesn't falter and his frame doesn't even twitch as the newcomer sits by his side, legs dangling over the edge of one of the highest balconies of Darkmount, now renamed the Watchtower—Jazz always cracks up at that, because if they were trying to make it sound less 'threatening' or 'imposing', Darkmount was better, but, well, _neutrals_—overlooking the mostly rebuilt and rechristened former Straxus, now Haephestas, in honor of a human forger god, or something of the like.

But the saboteur isn't looking down, or up.

He's staring at the horizon, where the pinpricks of the stars mix and mesh with the lights of the wild crystal forests that have, curiously enough, colonized the former industrial metropolis of Kaon.

Apparently, Cybertronian flora actually likes the smelters. Go figure.

Regardless, it makes for a spark-stopping sight, with the pools of molten metals illuminating the crystalline wildlife to create an ever-changing but permanent lightshow of auroras and colorful tiny galaxies.

The Forest of Stars. Or, as it is most commonly known, the Decepticon Forest.

Megatron had been amusingly speechless when he'd first heard about that name, and let's not even talk about him finding out about the sign someone—and why did everyone look at _Jazz_ when the topic came up? He hadn't been the culprit, nuh-huh, don't mind the fact he's crossing his dactyls behind his back when he swears his innocence—had put at the entrance with a very familiar quote: _You are being deceived (Don't let anyone tell you where you can dig your roots or how you should grow)_.

Of course, as usual, that means there is an Autobot something out there to compensate, and that is, to Optimus' eternal embarrassment, the Mines of Spires, better known as the Autobot Towers, the result of the rain of Quintessonian mothership bits on the Cybertanium mines their not-Masters had dug up and tried to exploit.

Apparently, whatever alien materials the ships had been built with had reacted with the Cybertanium as some big flaming chunks of the spacecrafts crashed and collapsed the mines, leaving behind large spires of a natural Autobot red glass-metal alloy, unique on their planet, with tilting flat panes curling around their axis, that had immediately been adopted as nesting grounds of many now endangered species of airborne fauna, as well as burrowing ones in the caverns that resulted of the rearrangement of the mines.

And, of course, someone—and this time it _wasn't_ Jazz, though he can't speak for a certain dark blue Cassette Carrier and his brood—had put up a sign to go along the one in the Decepticon Forest, this one claiming: _Freedom is the right of all sentient beings (Be as unique as you wish in your actions, your decisions, and your life)_.

But, back to the Watchtower and the question from the saboteur's companion.

"I'm not thinking."

_Well, not anymore. Plus, that was_ plotting_, not thinking._

The other mech stays quiet for a moment, before moving to stare at what Jazz, though he quickly starts fidgeting almost unnoticeably.

Almost. He's still being too obvious, despite his best efforts.

"Then, what are you looking at?"

"The past. The present. The future. What never was and what will never be. What could have happened and what might."

"And here I thought no one could be weirder than _Skywarp_."

Jazz throws his helm back and laughs.

Judging by Cyclonus' startled look and the way he subtly pushes away from the smaller mech, that's not the reaction the Flier was expecting.

But, well. He's Jazz. _Unpredictable_ is just another of his many names.

"Ah, quit the worrying, Seekerling. I won't tell your big brother that you think I'm cooler than he is."

"I—You—He—Don't call me _that_." The younger mech finally manages to answer after some sputtering, and, despite how long everyone's been calling him that—the Decepticon Seekers have a real love for doing it, the crazy fraggers— the heat in his voice and glare haven't decreased in the very least.

"So, how come you aren't with Goatee-cracker and Baby-tron?"

"I'm telling Galvatron you called him that. _Again_." Cyclonus deadpans, but the saboteur just gives him a lazy grin. "As for your question, Scourge is helping the Insecticons clear the Eastern section of Straxus for rebuilding and Galvatron angered Megatron. _Again_."

Jazz laughs once more, and mentally marks a secure route through the ventilation system to get down from his perch.

The Pit hath no fury like Ratchet having to deal with the aftermath of a 'debate' between Megsy and Galvy.

"And I... I wanted to..." Cyclonus whispers, staring up at the never-ending sky, and the smaller mech turns to him with a curious hum. "I wanted to see the stars." The Flier smiles then, the gesture small but bright, and Jazz looks upwards too with a sincere smile of his own.

"It's good to be home."

* * *

Space is infinite yet defined, noisy yet silent, full yet empty.

It is fact, well known by now.

Studied without thought or reason, learnt without intention or desire, discovered without will or consciousness.

It is _fact_.

Like it is fact that there are thought and reason, intention and desire, will and consciousness.

Have always been.

Only, now there's more.

Now, there's _awareness_.

And with it comes everything else.

Inside and outside.

Because there's the capacity of movement too, something awareness has made clear.

A way to move... And a place to go.

The means. The place. The _reason_.

Movement begins, unnoticed, unobserved, but present nevertheless.

Because there's awareness, and, with it, there's everything else.

Places to get to. People to find. Things to do.

And that's what will happen.

Because it is time, time to continue where it was left, time to finish what was started.

Time to _be_ again.

Unicron turns to Cybertron.

* * *

**AN:** Now, I'm afraid this is it, people, _The Reality of Dreams _has come to its end. I have to say that I never thought this story would ever come this far, or twist its initially simple plot this much, but I'm really glad it did, which is something all readers and reviewers helped with. So, thanks a lot, everyone!

Now, as I'm sure you can ser by the ending, there will be a sequel, but, though I'm already working on it, I will first check this fic again to get rid of typos and fix any and all mistakes that I can now spot, but rest assured, there will be no changes to the chapters.

Once more, thanks to everyone, and take care!

**KineticVo: **I'm happy to know that you liked last chapter, despite... Well. It had to happen.

**Giddy:** I'm happy to know that the explanation was useful, and more to read that I got Megatron right last chapter, along his interaction with Starscream. I was aiming for a nothing-has-changed-despite-how-long-it-has-been-because-we-haven't-changed-despite-having-changed, so knowing that they "clicked" is one of the greatest compliments I could have received *tears of joy* So, I will gladly take these review-payments. Thanks a lot!


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